


Flashman and the Throne of Swords, a Flashman-Song of Ice and Fire crossover

by Technomad



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Flashman Papers - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6837541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Technomad/pseuds/Technomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a way to travel between Westeros and Victorian Europe opens up, Britain needs its finest to represent it at King Robert's court.  Who better to call than Sir Harry Flashman?  (Actually, almost anybody else would do better, but he's burdened with his reputation.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

A Flashman/Song of Ice and Fire crossover fic

by Technomad

Chapter 1.

 

(from The Flashman Papers, written ca. 1905-1915)

 

For all that I’m a monarchist myself, I can’t deny that when kings and queens go bad, they have scope for going bad that we common folk can’t dream of. In my time I’ve stood, quaking and trying to put up a brave show, before some of the worst of ‘em. Ranavalona of Madagascar, Hung Hsiu-chuan of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, Gezo of Dahomey and Theodore of Abyssinia…aye, those monsters populate my dreams, when I’m unwise enough to dine on cheese and lobster. But the youngest, and one of the worst, was Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms et cetera, who bid fair to become a worse tyrant than the worst I’ve seen or heard of. And all at age thirteen, at that. 

I’ve no illusions about the young of the species. I was one once myself, and graduated from being a sneak and a toady to a bully and general rotter. But at my most powerful, all I had command of was the common-room at Rugby school, and the only subjects I had were the sniveling fags whom I could order tossed in blankets or roasted in front of fires.(1) Joff, at a younger age than I’d been when I’d lorded it at Rugby, was a king, don’t ye see, and could order your head put on a spike if it occurred to him that he might like it better there. He nearly decided, several times, to do just that to me, and ‘twasn’t his fault that I survived my adventures in his benighted Seven Kingdoms. 

‘Twas in the year 1858 that our scientific johnnies learned that a certain mechanism could send our ships to another world---a world where seasons lasted for years instead of months, a world that seemed to be stuck in the Middle Ages. Even I, lacking all interest in anything more scientific than the best way to get the knickers off an upstairs maid, could not help but notice the results. 

For a while, Westeros and Westerosi fashions were all the rage. Elspeth had several “authentically Westerosi” gowns run up (at a price no more than middling ruinous) which, I noted later, were no more authentically Westerosi than I am. Reams of bad poetry were written about the wars and history of Westeros. Reading between the lines, the place sounded decidedly dangerous, and I made up my mind to keep well away from it. I’d just made my way back to home and beauty from some hair-raising adventures in the Mutiny, and had no mind to stir from London again. Of course, I’ve made such resolutions many times in my life---much good they ever did me!

When I received an invitation---read, “command” from dear Vicky to attend her at Buckingham, I sensed that the writing was on the wall for old Flashy. There had been a Westerosi delegation there for some time, and as a well-known traveller and survivor of various far places, my opinion would be wanted. 

The invitation found me in Zoola, where I had just concluded a particularly hair-raising series of adventures in Abyssinia, including enough peril to send anybody sane shrieking for asylum. I’d survived mad Emperor Theodore’s court, being swept off a waterfall, the hostility of a princess, and several battles. Honestly, I sometimes think I’d have done better going into the Church, or reading for the Bar. I knew something was rum, and the next thing I heard confirmed it. 

“Flash,” says the cove I’m talking to, a Navy lieutenant, “we’ve been sent here with a short-list of people our dear Queen wants to see, toute-suite. Your name’s near the top of that list. Good job I found you.” 

So, home and beauty beckoned, even though it included a stop at Buck House. Discreet inquiry told me, to my relief, that once I was in Alexandria, the ship wouldn’t be stopping until we were dropping anchor at Portsmouth. I’d no desire to go ashore on French soil; the frog-eaters were still on the lookout for me for deserting their foul Foreign Legion in Mexico, even if I had done it at an Emperor’s command (2). Austria might also be perilous; the kraut-eating admiral whose niece I’d debauched while escorting poor Max’s corpse back to native soil (3) might still be nursing spite against me, and plotting vengeance should he lay hands on Flashy. It’s hell sometimes, when people won’t let go of grudges. Much I should talk, though---the next grudge I let go of will be the first. 

I’d never have done for the Navy, but I must say, when they put their minds to a task there’s nobody else like ‘em. In what seemed like jig time, I was looking out at the English shoreline in Plymouth from the railing of my ship, and already fondly anticipating a reunion with my sweet, feather-brained Elspeth. She’d been notified that I was on the way, which I hoped meant that the little trollop had cleared out whatever fancy-men she had taken up with while I was safely out of the way. I’d no desire to walk in on her in a compromising position with some swaggering arrogant pinhead. The scene we’d had before I went off to the Crimea was still fresh in my memory,(4) and I didn’t want a second act of the same damned farce.

Elspeth was delighted to see me, of course. She always is, bless her; she may well have been doing the mattress quadrille with half of Society while I was gone, but you’d never have guessed it from the fervor she showed, welcoming “her Hector” home. When I told her we were bidden to Buck House, she gave a squeal that nearly deafened me.

“The Queen wishes to see us! Oh, Harry! I must wear my finest gown, of the latest style, and you must wear your medals! What could Her Majesty want? Could she wish to ennoble you?” 

Privately, I thought that me becoming “Lord Flashman” was about as likely as me joining the Plymouth Bretheren, but I left her to her fantasies. My knighthood had already made her monstrous snobbish, and I rather imagined that if I ended up in the Lords, she’d get her head so swollen with self-importance that we’d need to modify the doors at Gandamack to accommodate her. Although it did occur to me that if we did get bumped up high enough, I might find myself nobler than James bloody Brudenell, the Earl of Cardigan. Which would be very sweet revenge for the way he’d turfed me out of his moth-eaten regiment for marrying Elspeth, damn him.(5) 

A few days later, we were being shown into Buckingham Palace, which is rather like a very large morgue with a lot of expensive paintings on the walls. The servants were as insolent as ever, and I thought longingly of having ‘em in the Army under my command; a good flogging apiece was no less than what they deserved. By now my sweet scatterbrain was not flustered merely by being in the Royal Presence, so at least I was spared the task of calming her down sufficient to do the necessary.

As always, Vicky was dressed in deepest mourning. It was seven years since the fathead Albert had passed on, and I thought it a trifle excessive, but nobody could sway our gracious sovereign lady when her mind was made up. She welcomed us pleasantly enough, though. “Sir Harry! And Lady Flashman! Do please make yourselves comfortable! We have long awaited your arrival, Sir Harry. We have a most important mission to entrust to you!”

This did not sound good, not for a minute it didn’t. Given my undeserved reputation for fire-eating derring-do, I didn’t think for a second that Vicky had called for me to unstop some stubborn drains. Of course, that blithering idiot I married was all enthusiasm, burbling “But, your Majesty, of course dear Harry would love to do anything you require of him! He’s so brave!”

Vicky turned her pop eyes toward Elspeth. “And you, Lady Flashman, shall have a part to play as well. The task at hand would be done better by a married couple.” 

At the thought of actually sharing in my exploits, darling Elspeth was torn between delight and puzzlement. Puzzlement won out. “Why, whatever do you mean, your Majesty? I’m just a simple Scottish girl who had the luck to marry the best, bravest, most unsullied cavalier that ever lived…” Had I had less self-control, I might have rolled my eyes in amusement. Either Elspeth, like every other fool in Her Majesty’s dominions, believed all the stories about me despite having lived with me for so long, or she was much sharper than she let on, and was subtly pulling Vicky’s leg. I’ve never been able to decide just which one was the case.

Vicky sipped at her tea, looking remarkably like her Hanover uncles. “We would never send an official envoy to a foreign court without his loving spouse at his side.” At this, Elspeth and I exchanged puzzled glances. I’d had a little to do with the diplomatic, mostly during the Sikh imbroglio(6) but it was by no means what I was best-known for. And I privately thought that my talent for languages, and for getting along with various homicidal foreigners, disqualified me forever from her gracious Majesty’s diplomatic service. At least, the diplomatic wallahs I’d met mostly lacked those qualities. For some of them (the Scots in particular) English was difficult enough, without trying to wrap their heads around whatever Mumbo-Jumbo-landish dialect was spoken where they’d fetched up. As for getting along with the locals…words fail me! 

Elspeth gave a squeal of joy. “Oh, your Majesty, you honour us so highly! Imagine it…my Harry, an Ambassador!” Vicky shook her head, and Elspeth subsided, looking puzzled. 

“No, Lady Flashman, We have another person in mind for the Ambassadorship. Your husband shall be an attaché to the embassy.”

“Who’s been tapped for the ambassador’s slot?” I asked. This was getting rum-er by the minute, and my sixth sense for danger was screaming at me. Unfortunately, under the Queen’s eye (not to mention Elspeth) there was nothing for it but to face the music, even with my guts threatening to do the polka. 

The Queen looked inordinately pleased, as though she were a cat who not only had eaten the canary, but had got the dog blamed. “Why, who else but our dear Captain Sir Richard Burton? While We do not care for his wife’s inordinate attachment to the Roman superstition, his record is unrivalled, even by you, dear Sir Harry.”

That was one bit of good news to set against the oncoming catastrophe I could see barreling down on me. Ruffian Dick and I were much of an age, and his reputation for getting into, and out of, forbidden places full of savage niggers made even mine look rather second-rate. On this sort of biznai, there were few people I’d rather have along than Dick Burton. To add extra spice, he believed every word about my exploits and considered me a kindred soul. Many an evening we’d whiled away over drinks, yarning over various places we’d been, people we’d seen, and perils we’d escaped.

Of course, since wives were coming along, that meant putting up with that tedious rainy day he’d married, Isabel Arundell Burton. She could bore for England, and her idiotic attachment to the Catholic Church meant that she was forever and a day trying to convert everybody she met. As an atheist (attached C. of E.), I had had to tell her, politely but in clear English, that no, I was not interested in swimming the Tiber, and to leave me be. When I was out of Town, Elspeth had had words with her on the subject as well; afterwards, Isabel was reported to be sporting a black eye. Lucky that Dick was nowhere nearby. I don’t know that he’d have come after Elspeth and forced me to confront him…but it was better that it not come up at all. I’d no desire to square off with Ruffian Dick Burton, not with fists, blades, barkers or in any other way. Anybody who writes whole books about proper swordplay is too deadly for me.

Elspeth, being her usual self, homed in on the one detail I’d missed. “Sir? I hadn’t known he had a knighthood, your Majesty. Or has he inherited a baronetcy?” She’s the original snob, my Elspeth is, for all that her late father was nothing but a miserly Scotch mill-owner before our lunatic Government of the day ennobled him as “Lord Paisley.” She could put on the fearfullest airs, Elspeth could. I’ve known duchesses (and not just in the carnal sense, thank’ee kindly, although I’ve had a few of ‘em) who were much less concerned with titles, rank and protocol. Not that Elspeth was ever unkind.

Vicky smiled, looking like a contented toad. “We have seen fit to grant dear Sir Richard the order of Knight of St. Michael and St. George, in recognition of his services to Our Realm.” Well, this was a stunner and no mistake. I privately thought that Dick was far worthier of the allocade than any of the fatheads I knew who had it (and I include myself in that number) but his reputation, and his love of kicking sacred cows, should have prevented him getting anything of the sort. He’d offended too many powerful folk, and such people have ways of getting their own back, usually sneaky and roundabout. But if Vicky said it would be so…our sovereign lady may not have had much formal power, but she could face down any obstreperous Jack-in-office in her realm without breaking a sweat. 

Well, I’ve always said, if there’s no help for it, might as well at least put up a brave front while looking for a back way to slip out by. “Your Majesty? You haven’t mentioned just where we’re to go.” Privately, I wondered if she planned to ship me back to India. God knows, I’d done enough there for her to think of Flashy if there was a bowl of steaming mulligatawny all ready for me to be thrown in. But India was quiet, as far as I knew, so where…?

“We have decided that We need to send an envoy to Westeros. King Robert was kind enough to send Us envoys, and We wish a firmer tie between Our realm and the Seven Kingdoms.” At the mention of Westeros, my stomach started feeling like a big cold owl was trapped in it and flapping to try to get out. 

Had I been alone, I could have wept and danced with frustration. It wasn’t fair, by Jove! I’d just come back from years of Hellish adventures, between being caught up in the Yanks’ stupid, useless civil war, being a reluctant assistant to Wild Bill Hickok (not that he needed it; that man was all cold steel and rawhide, and one of the two fastest gunslicks it’s ever been my pleasure to see; I’d have given good money to put him at his best up against Tiger Jack Moran and see who walked away) trying to save Max of Mexico’s useless Hapsburg hide, evading an angry Austrian admiral, and finding myself the prisoner of a mad emperor in Abyssinia!(7) I’d had enough! I’d bloody well resign…but that blethering nitwit I’d married was burbling: “Oh, your Majesty! What an honour! I’m sure that my Harry will acquit himself with perfection! He’s so intelligent, so strong, so brave…” And with those two women’s eyes on me, I’d no choice (if I wanted to keep a shred of credit) but to face up to my fate. 

“Very well,” I said, trying to sound like a trip to Westeros was just what I wanted, and a jolly good idea. “When are we to leave?” 

Vicky smiled, and Elspeth gave a squeal of glee and clasped her hands together. “We wish to give you a few months to settle things in England, dear Sir Harry,” said our sovereign lady. “Therefore, you shall leave here in four months’ time. The sailing should be better then.”

The rest of the audience was mercifully short. While our Vicky always had a partiality to me, with my six feet of dark good looks, lancer figure, and whiskers, and she couldn’t help but like Elspeth (Elspeth’s such a ray of sunshine that even other women take a shine to her, bless her) she did have other claims on her time. We were dismissed, and once I was back at Berkeley Square, I sat Elspeth down for some serious talk. 

“Elspeth, darling, I want you to understand something. This is not just some house party. Westeros is seriously dangerous.” That was an understatement, if anything. I’d read enough, and heard enough from folk who’d been there, to know that Westeros was, at best, a medieval mess, with a King whose morals would have shocked Jeendan(8), a court that made the Chinese court look straightforward and easy to understand, and not a drop of distilled liquor or a decent cheroot to bless itself with. Personally, I’d sooner have bearded Henry VIII than go within a thousand miles of the accursed place.

“But, Harry! How could I be in danger? I’ll be with you, my jo! I remember how you protected me and kept me safe in Madagascar, when those awful folk were after us…”(9) I had to admit, Elspeth had a point. Then her eyes went all dreamy. “And I so look forward to meeting all those gallant knights, like heroes out of King Arthur’s story! Maybe they’ll have a tournament, and I might get crowned Queen of Love and Beauty! Would that not be wonderful, Harry?”

And that was another objection I had to this whole lunatic scheme. I knew my lawfully-wedded featherbrain, and I had no intention of standing by while she put horns on my head yet again with half the chivalry of Westeros. Like most of the women I knew, she’d been reading that fathead Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, and I could just imagine her picturing herself as Guinevere or Igraine or one of the other noble sluts in those poems. 

“In any case,” Elspeth said, “the Queen requires it of us. You have always done your duty, my love, and now I must step up and do mine along with you. And we shall do credit to our country.” That stopped my mouth, but good. Married men know that when two women make up their minds about something, no mere man can get in the way, but when one of them is the divinely-appointed monarch whose pop-eyed features are on all the coins, there’s nothing for it. Elspeth came closer, and put her arms around me. “And it’s early afternoon. Let’s to bed early, dear.” I saw a lecherous gleam in her eyes. “We shall soon be very busy, and I doubt there’s much privacy for us on shipboard.”

Elspeth had the right of it, and bed sounded just fine. I let her lead me away.

Footnotes:

(1) See Tom Brown’s Schooldays.  
(2) This occurred some time before Flashman On The March begins. The Flashman papers do not as yet explain all the details, but somehow or other, Flashman made his peace with the French authorities.  
(3) Admiral Tegethoff. See Flashman On The March.  
(4) See Flashman At The Charge.  
(5) See Flashman.  
(6) See Flashman and the Mountain of Light.  
(7) These adventures are detailed in Flashman On The March.  
(8) Maharani Jeendan Kaur of the Punjab. See Flashman and the Mountain of Light.  
(9) See Flashman’s Lady. Flashman had been a prisoner of Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, while Elspeth had been concealed by the Queen’s son. They escaped together under circumstances of great peril.

END Chapter 01


	2. Chapter Two

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 02

by Technomad

 

Kings Landing, seen from the sea, reminded me of Constantinople. The main difference was that there were no minarets, and that these fortifications were in full working order and manned. We’d made good time from Portsmouth, aboard HMS Warrior, with HMS Black Prince and HMS Penelope as escorts, along with several colliers. The sight of so many of our ironclads(1) making the trip was worrisome; for all of Vicky’s reassurances, this meant that trouble was at least possible, and any sign of trouble in the future sends me in the other direction. That is, if I can do it.

Unfortunately, we were on shipboard, and not only was Elspeth standing right by me, but so was Ruffian Dick Burton, along with his tiresome wife. The Westerosi delegation was returning home as well, after marveling at the miracles of modern civilisation. They were led by a couple of knights, Ser Lancel Lannister, some sort of in-law of the King, and Ser Dontos Hollard. Two of the finest fools it’s ever been my privilege to meet. Ser Lancel made my darling Elspeth look like a proper genius, and Ser Dontos could drink a sergeant’s mess under the table. Keeping up with him at one of the banquets we’d been at together had been extremely difficult, and if I hadn’t managed to pour half of my drinks into a nearby potted azelea, I’d have been out for the count before dessert. Introducing them to card games had been a joy, however. Along with some of my colleagues, I had led them down the primrose path, and shorn them like sheep. King Robert had sent them out very well-provided-for in money, and a lot of that money now reposed contentedly in my possession.

They’d worked out a treaty with that greasy sharper D’Israeli, where we would supply them with modern goods in exchange for first dibs on whatever wealth we could find. The poor dupes thought that they had struck a wonderful bargain; they were astonished at what even obsolete flintlock muskets could do.(2) We had carefully kept them away from demonstrations of our most up-to-date armaments, and were absolutely not going to give them the formula for gunpowder, or show them how to make percussion caps. If trouble did arise, we didn't want to have to deal with enemies we’d armed ourselves. We’d learned that much from the Mutiny, at least.

“So that’s Kings Landing,” Dick commented. He gave the place a knowing look. “Rather reminds me of some Indian cities, doesn’t it you, Sir Harry?”

I nodded. The details were different, but the overall effect was much the same. Including the smell. We were being given a “friendly” escort into the harbour by some royal galleys, and I could already smell the familiar smell. Beside me, Elspeth wrinkled her pretty nose, and a little way away, Isabel Burton raised a handkerchief to her face. 

The harbour was too shallow for Warrior to tie up next to the quays, so we anchored out in the middle, and disembarked on to a royal barge that took us to shore. To my surprise, the barge was steam-powered. We’d been in touch with Westeros for a decade, and there was already a small community of expatriated British and other folk from our world there, eagerly looking about for profit. Among them was one of my Scotch in-laws, Angus Morrison, Elspeth’s first cousin and one of the few of that tribe other than Elspeth that I could stomach. 

Elspeth, of course, had written to her cousin telling him that we were on the way. He had written back, and between his letters and the official reports we’d received, Dick and I had had some very interesting reading indeed. We had learned that the current King, Robert, was the first of his line to occupy the throne, having overthrown the previous dynasty a few years before contact had been made with our world. He had apparently once been a great warrior, but, according to Angus, he’d taken to drink, women and hunting as though they were all there were in life. I liked the sound of him, and thought we’d get on well. 

Angus also said that the Throne was in Queer Street. The King spent money like it was going out of style, and was arse-over-tip in debt, both to a band of leeches called the “Iron Bank of Braavos” and to his in-laws. He had married into a very wealthy noble family, the Lannisters of Lannisport, and they seemed to be willing to finance him drinking himself to death. Again, this sounded very familiar. The Morrisons had once had such hopes of me, but I was alive and my miserly father-in-law was probably roasting in Hell, if there was any such thing as posthumous justice. 

At the quay, we were met by a formation of knights, all of them wearing white cloaks over their armour. We recognised them as the Kingsguard, an elite formation of knights sworn to protect the King. They reminded me of what I’d read at school about the Knights Templar, being, like the Templars, sworn to chastity. How they recruited new members was beyond me; the thought of never touching a woman again was more than enough to make me shudder. Aye, well…the supply of ambitious fools never grows the less. Otherwise, how would Parliament go on?

Their leader, I noticed, was wearing golden, or at least gold-coloured, armour. When he came forward, took off his helmet, and bowed, I heard Elspeth gasp beside me, and Isabel Burton’s eyes went very wide. The man was an absolute Adonis, damn him. I instantly resolved to be on my guard and keep an eye on my pretty little featherhead. Dick had less to worry about; from what I’d heard Isabel thought the sun rose and set on him. Even so, though, this man was a threat.

“You are the British delegation?” he asked. For some unfathomable reason, the Westerosi Common Speech was almost like English, and with a little study, all of us had learned to speak it and understand it fluently. I’d say it was more like English than that beastly gargle they speak in Scotland, but I’d say that about Chinese. “Welcome to Kings Landing. My name is Ser Jaime Lannister, of the Kingsguard. I greet you in the name of my sovereign lord, Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Now, this was interesting. The reports, official and unofficial, we had received had had much to say about this man. He had been in the Kingsguard of the king before the current incumbent, the one they called “Mad King Aerys.” When Robert Baratheon had raised his banner of revolt, the Lannisters had stayed out of it like sensible folk, until the time was right to kick the Mad King right in the danglies. Then the Lannister patriarch, Tywin Lannister, had persuaded the king to let his troops into the city, and once there, they had turned their coats and joined the rebellion. 

To cap it off, Ser Jaime had so far forgotten his oaths to the Kingsguard as to push the Mad King right off the end of the wagon with his own hands. That had won him the name “Kingslayer.” Having a chap with that nickname in his own special guard meant that either King Robert was extremely brave or barking mad. Or, as seemed likeliest, so drunk that he didn’t much care. Of course, he was married to the Kingslayer’s own twin sister. He might have felt that gave him some protection from Ser Jaime deciding to see if he could pull the same sort of trick twice. 

We introduced ourselves, me keeping a wary eye on Elspeth as she looked the knights over, and formed up to go into the city to the Red Keep. We’d been given a detachment of Royal Marines, and I was damned glad to see ‘em. For all that I’m a cavalryman myself, I’ll admit freely that Her Majesty’s Jollies are a reassuring sight to see when you’re in partibus infidelium, as John Charity Spring might have said.(3) Even though I knew that in the event of real trouble, they’d not be able to protect us, I knew that they’d go down fighting, and hopefully, give me a chance to disappear. 

Walking along beside me, Ser Lancel muttered: “This is Flea Bottom, Ser Harry. It’s a bad part of town. The people here are drunkards, whoremongers, and whores.” This caught my interest, and I looked around carefully, intending to come back and investigate when I got a chance to do so. To my eye, it was like the East End of London, or other such purlieus in our own capital city. The details were different, but the overall effect was much the same. And the people seemed reasonably healthy and well-fed, which was a good sign.

The Red Keep was one of the biggest fortresses it had ever been my privilege to see. Windsor may have covered more ground, but the Red Keep had very little open space beyond a couple of small courtyards. It made Jhansi and the other Indian fortress-palaces I had seen look rather tame. I was glad of our escort; the place was huge and labyrinthine, and I’d have soon been lost on my own. 

The overall effect was very like what I imagine a medieval castle would have been like. Tapestries on the walls told stories I did not know, and torches burning in sconces provided light where the windows did or could not. I noticed, carven into the stone, things like a seven-pointed star, symbolic of the Faith of the Seven, and a three-headed dragon that symbolized the previous dynasty.

Finally, we reached the throne room. The Iron Throne loomed at one end of the chamber, high up on a dais over the main floor. As I’d been told, it was made of hundreds of swords, all of them fused together with dragonfire, but still sharp. It was said that the Throne would cut an unworthy person who dared to sit in it. The throne room was crowded; everybody wanted to see the English ambassador and his retinue arriving.

King Robert lolled in the Iron Throne. He looked to me like an old soldier, past his prime, content to sleep, eat, drink and fornicate his days away. He reminded me of my own guv’nor, truth be told, at least before the drink really got him and he had to be carted away to the blue-devil factory for the last time. I liked him immediately, and thought that he might make a jolly companion of an evening. 

Below him on the steps leading up to the throne was his wife, Queen Cersei. She was standing close to her husband, but anybody could see that she detested him. She was a real beauty, blonde and blue-eyed with a figure that would bring a stone idol howling off its pedestal. Had we been in Britain, she’d have been the belle of the Season, with a train of admirers longer than Watling Street. I glanced at Elspeth, and saw that my sweet wife was giving the Queen a stony stare, which was being returned. To my surprise, Isabel Burton was also clearly not feeling friendly toward Queen Cersei. This did not bode well for our diplomacy. I made up my mind to have a talk with Elspeth and find out what had set her off so. 

The heralds introduced the King and Queen, and then the rest of the members of the “Small Council,” which is what the Westerosi call a Privy Council. The King’s youngest brother, Renly, stood out from the rest. He was another Adonis, only dark where Ser Jaime was blond, with a dangerously slantendicular look in his eye. I could see Elspeth preening when his glance fell on her, and even Isabel Burton was clearly pleased by his looks. Aye, thought I, another one to watch.

Of the others, Varys, the “Master of Whisperers,” or spymaster, was probably the most distinctive. He was clearly not a local man, and from his lack of beard and high voice, I was certain that he was an eunuch. I’d seen enough of ‘em, in China and elsewhere, to know the look. Dick Burton looked intrigued. One of his hobbies where ever he went was investigating the local sexual curiosities, and, unlike me, he didn’t confine himself to the brothels. He’d got himself into hot water with our prudish countrymen, since he published his findings and didn’t care about hurting their sensibilities. 

The Master of Coin, or treasurer, Lord Petyr Baelish, had a shifty, untrustworthy look about him, and I wondered if King Robert was mad, to trust such a man close to the fisc. In his boots, I’d not have let Lord Petyr so much as into the castle. He looked us over like we were livestock brought to market, and he was figuring how much he could make off us. 

“Welcome to Westeros, Ser Richard, Ser Harry, and your ladies!” boomed King Robert. “Normally, We’d have a tournament in your honour…” I could see my silly wife perking up at that announcement… “but, unfortunately, the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn,(4) has died unexpectedly and the court’s in mourning.” Elspeth drooped slightly. “We are planning a journey shortly, up to Winterfell in the north, to see Our good friend and comrade, Ned Stark, the Lord of the North. When We return, then we may well have a tournament. In the meantime, there shall be a feast tonight, in honour of your safe arrival.” 

The feast was everything I had ever imagined a medieval feast to be, complete with musicians scraping and twanging away in the galleries as we glutted ourselves down below. We sat through an invocation to the locals’ Seven Gods, and Elspeth took it fairly well while Isabel Burton was plainly seething for the chance to make a rebuttal. I’d have sworn that Dick had her by the arm, very firmly, as long as the High Septon was droning on. 

While Dick and I were both excellent sailors and had had no trouble with seasickness, our wives had suffered on the way to Westeros and were very glad of the food. Westerosi cuisine was rich and wonderful, and the wines were a revelation. To my relief, they had stuff called “strongwine” that I gathered was made by taking wine, freezing it, and throwing out the ice. It wasn’t a patch on brandy, but it would do for the present. 

When the feast was ended, we were shown to our quarters. We had a whole large tower to ourselves, and the Union Jack fluttered from its battlements to show that it was serving as the Crown’s embassy in Westeros. Our Marine contingent were also sleeping there, in rooms that had been revamped into barracks. Our own chambers were richly, if barbarically, appointed, and I decided that the diplomatic service had its benefits. Instead of roasting or freezing on campaign, huddled in a tent and eating leather to keep from starvation, I was cosily ensconced in a luxurious set of chambers with my own beloved brainless beauty to keep me company and warm my bed. Aye, I thought to myself as I poured out another dose of strongwine, things could be much worse.

A tap at the door alerted me, and I sidled over to the door, signalling Elspeth to be quiet and putting my hand on the Colt Baby Dragoon I had in my pocket. I’d enough memories of Lahore, Jhansi, Tananarivo and Pekin to not let my surroundings put me off my guard completely. The door opened silently, and Dick Burton slipped in, quiet as a shadow.

He gestured for quiet, as Elspeth’s eyes went wide. In a low voice, he said in Arabic: “Be very careful what you say in here. This tower is riddled with spy tunnels.” 

I looked around, but couldn’t see any spy holes, which meant nothing at all. The furniture was heavy and hard to move, and could have concealed them easily. The decoration was overdone enough that they could have been lurking anywhere. I nodded. 

Elspeth asked: “Harry? What’s that language you’re speaking?” I wrote the word “Arabic” down on a sheet of paper and handed it to her. Her eyes went wide. Elspeth may seem a fool, but I had told her more than enough for her to twig quickly that we were doing this to avoid being overheard. And Westeros had been in contact with our world long enough for them to have speakers of the commoner European languages about. Arabic, on the other hand, would almost certainly defeat them, and both Dick and I were fluent.(5) 

“I don’t trust that Varys creature as far as I could throw him,” Dick went on, “and that treasurer’s got a lean and hungry look about him, if ever I’ve seen one. We’d all best be on our toes, and if we really want to speak sub rosa, use languages that the locals won’t understand.” I nodded, and he slipped back out. 

In a very low voice, and in French, which she did speak fluently, I explained what had just happened to Elspeth. Elspeth, to give her credit, twigged immediately to what we were doing. In French, she said “But of course, Harry. I can see how that would work in our favour. We are perfectly honest, but still, we don’t want the local people to know everything that we’re doing. And in this Varys’ shoes, I’d have us watched without cease.”

And then she wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me a passionate kiss. She purred, in English this time: “Since we’re sure they’re watching us, my jo, let us give them something worth the watching!” I smiled, and began undoing her gown as she began unbuttoning my clothes. 

1\. Warrior was the first ironclad warship built for the Royal Navy. Black Prince and Penelope came later.  
2\. As part of the treaty between Westeros and Great Britain, the British government sold thousands of obsolete “Brown Bess” muskets to Westeros, to re-equip the royal forces. The formula for gunpowder was kept a closely guarded secret, and gunpowder sales to Westeros were closely regulated.  
3\. See Flash for Freedom! John Charity Spring (1810-1875), M.A., was a disgraced Oxford don who had captained the Balliol College slaver on Flashman’s involuntary voyage to the Slave Coast and North America in 1848. One of his distinctive habits was salting his speech with Latin tags, whether or no the hearers could understand them.  
4\. Hand of the King was rather like an Eastern vizier. In the event of the King’s incapacity or unavailability, he could make royal-level decisions as though he were king himself.   
5\. One of the few Britons more multilingual than Flashman himself, Sir Richard Burton was said to speak thirty-nine languages fluently. His Arabic was good enough for him to pose as an Arab and make the pilgrimage to Mecca, where being exposed as a Christian would have meant instant death.


	3. Chapter 3

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter Three

by Technomad

 

Sure enough, in a few days the royal family set out to the North. From what I had heard, the North was a beastly cold, barren place, and Winterfell was a giant sepulchre, so I wasn’t sorry to miss the journey at all. In any case, there was a great deal to be done in Kings Landing.

Warrior and Black Prince had to return to Britain; some fribbling crisis or other had come up, and their presence was needed to keep the foreigners in proper awe of the Widow at Windsor and the Royal Navy. At least Penelope was staying. There was a chance of the locals trying their luck against our merchant ships, and having the means at hand to deal firmly with such incidents was very comforting. 

Meanwhile, Dick Burton took command of the embassy. “You know, Flash,” he commented to me, “having the chance to set up an embassy along the right lines is something I never thought to get the chance to do. I don’t want to waste it!” Me, I’d have been happy to waste it, but under Dick’s sharp eye, we all had no choice but to turn to and show good. Aye, well…I figured that the drinking kens and other places of low amusement down in Flea Bottom would still be there when we were done. And the food, lodgings and other comforts (Elspeth at the top of the list) were top-notch while we worked.

There was much to do, refurbishing our tower to proper standards. One of the first things we got at was erecting a tall mast on top of the tower, rigged to allow flag signals to be flown from it. From the parapets of our tower, the harbour was clearly visible, and Penelope could see and answer our signals. “Even though relations are smooth now, there’s no harm in being careful,” said Ruffian Dick. As you can no doubt imagine, I agreed wholeheartedly. We also installed a heliograph. I’d seen ‘em in use enough times to know how useful they are. 

That wasn’t the only precaution we took. We hauled in heavy crates, which turned out to contain Gatling guns and ammunition for them, and set them up at points that commanded the entrances to the tower. The Westerosi had no idea what Gatlings could do; the poor fools who’d gone to Britain had been carefully kept away from any close sight of modern weapons. Even Brown Bess was miles ahead of anything they had.(1) They had no idea of how much more accurate our Sniders were, or how much faster we could load them. (2) 

“That will be a surprise for them, if things turn ugly,” said Dick, giving me a wink. I smiled to myself. I’m a practicing coward, unlike Dick, and the thought of having thick stone walls and Gatling guns manned by Marines between me and any howling mobs of enemies that might turn up felt very good. 

We also met the members of the local British community. About five minutes after Westeros’ existence, and the means to travel between it and Britain, had been revealed, there’d been a stream of people looking to try their luck on this virgin continent. Some of ‘em were ne’er-do-wells, many one jump ahead of the law back in Blighty, or in the colonies. Others weren’t. 

Once we’d put our tower to rights, an invitation went out to all Britons in Kings Landing, to come to the embassy for a reception. We’d spared no expense; Ser Dontos’ and Ser Lancel’s money had been put to good use, even with me and the others who’d fleeced those fools dipping our sticky hands in the till, and we were able to hire the best entertainers and cooks Kings Landing boasted. 

On the night, my beloved scatterbrain was all a-twitter. “Oh, Harry, I’m so looking forward to this! There’ll be dancing! And music! And guests!” Like all of us, Elspeth had been working hard to get the embassy up and on a business basis, and to my surprise, she had proven useful. She’d helped hire the servants we needed, and had shown herself to be a shrewd bargainer when the subject of their wages came up. I guess that you can take the girl out of Scotland, but never Scotland out of the girl.

“And you, m’dear, will be the belle of the ball…as always,” I said. Even though I knew my husbandly duty, I was telling the truth for once. Elspeth did look radiant. She’d a gown on that was the latest fashion from Paris, and she looked utterly radiant in it. She’d gained a stone or so since our marriage, but it was in all the right places. She saw the look in my eye, and moved away, laughing. 

“No, Harry, my jo, I’ve just finished making myself presentable,” she purred, knowing that I was thinking seriously of forgetting the reception and grabbing her and exercising the droit du seigneur on her. The medieval atmosphere had got my mind running along those lines. She was by no means averse, from the gleam in her eyes, but we both really did have to go to the reception. The looks she gave me, and the way she squeezed my hand, though, told me that we’d have a happy, exhausting time of it later. 

The guests were a very mixed bag, unlike the usual run of house-parties back Home. The local contingent of God-botherers were out in full force. Clergymen can smell free food from fifty miles away. There was also an assortment of mercantile types, all hoping to make fortunes selling cheap machine-made cloth and such to the Westerosi, at prices that would make a Bombay Jew turn green with envy. 

David Livingstone was there, of course. The second he’d heard of Westeros’ existence, he’d abandoned Africa as though it were a creditor he couldn’t pay, heading as fast as he could for a whole continent of people ripe for conversion in a climate that mightn’t kill him. While I can take missionaries or leave ‘em alone (preferably the latter) I couldn’t find it in me to blame him for that decision. I’d seen more than enough of Africa, and personally, wouldn’t go back there for a peerage and pension. 

With his African laurels fresh on his brow, he was leader by right of the Bible-mongers, at least the Protestants. Isabel Burton’s eyes lit up at the sight of the Catholic contingent, and soon they were deep in discussion of how to best get all the Westerosi to swim the Tiber. Good luck to you, Isabel, I thought; from my own experience of foreign parts, the local people were generally perfectly satisfied with their existing religions, and not amenable to changing just because some foreign busybodies said they should. 

And unlike your typical Mumbo-Jumbo-land tribe, the locals here had a sophisticated religious establishment already in place. I’d not really looked into it in any detail, but with a High Septon, or highest priest, and a hierarchy of priests in place below him, the Faith of the Seven did not look like it would be easy to supplant. I didn’t know that the locals went in for things like heresy trials or killing unbelievers, but I also didn’t know that they didn’t. As a long-time pagan (attached C. of E.; I read the lessons on important church holidays and keep in well with my vicar up at Ashby, but that shouldn’t be confused with belief in God) I’d keep well out of conflicts with the Faith, and had cautioned Elspeth to do likewise. If Dick Burton couldn’t keep his wife out of trouble with those people, back she’d have to go. Oh, what a tragedy that would be.

Livingstone came over to buttonhole Dick and me. While I considered him an utter ass, I had to admit that his African travels qualified him to be there in Westeros. He had been travelling about, and had a lot of information to share about the country, so we were glad to speak with him.

“Ambassador, Sir Harry, it’s an honour to meet you both at last! I’ve followed the reports of your exploits avidly! May I tell you about my travels on this continent?” At least he wasn’t havering on about whether Dick and I had accepted Jesus as our personal savior or not. I can take religious folk or leave ‘em alone (the latter for preference) but many of them do try my patience with their eternal concern about my alleged soul. Particularly when so many of ‘em are whited sepulchres themselves.

We agreed, and he took us over to a wall where a large map of Westeros was pinned up. Livingstone began pointing out places on the map, places that meant nothing to me at the time. “Well, we’ve established a congregation at Lannisport, here on the western coast. So far, none of the nobles have shown any interest, but we’ve a good few of what they call the ‘smallfolk’ at least listening to our preaching. That’ll be important; the Lannisport area’s got gold mines. That’s why the Lannister family, the ruling local nobles, are so important. They could be valuable allies.”

This was why Dick and I hadn’t brushed the tiresome pest off. One of our assigned goals was to open Westeros to European, especially British commerce. Had my father-in-law been alive, he’d have been slavering at the thought of all those Westerosi wearing cheap calico woven in his mills, with the profits going straight into his pockets. Since he was dead (and roasting in Hell, if there’s any post-mortem justice) it was my beloved Elspeth’s cousin, Angus Morrison, who stood to rake in the gold. 

And, speak of the Scotsman, there he was. “Hullo, Harry! Glad ye could make it here! Is this no’ a grand castle?” Dick and David both gave him questioning looks, and I hastened to make introductions. “Aye, I’ve heard of ye, Sir Richard. Read yer book aboot yer trip tae Mecca! An’ every Scot kens the name of David Livingstone!” Both of them lapped the flattery right up. Angus was smooth. I happened to know that he had read Dick’s tedious book (the man’s life was wildly adventurous, but his writing was dreary beyond all belief), but his real opinion of missionaries was akin to mine: that they were, on the whole, a tiresome bunch of troublemakers whom H.M.G. would be much better off telling that if they insisted on meddling in others’ affairs, it was at their own risk. However, my pious countrymen would never have stood for that. So we poor redcoats would be stuck hauling the God-botherers’ hot chestnuts out of the fire, forever and ever and ever. 

Angus was full of news of his own: “We’ve found coal, an’ there’s lots of streams that we can dam for power! Wi’ that, we can be settin’ up factories a’ over the place! His Majesty’s verra interested in our plans. We’ve promised him a distillery, first thing!”

From what I’d seen and heard of King Robert, I’d wager that he’d sell his firstborn for a distillery. About the only faster way into his good graces would likely be a whorehouse. After my experiences in Santa Fe, I could have helped out with that, had Elspeth and Isabel Burton not been along. 

“Do they grow tobacco here at all?” I wanted to know. While I had a good supply of cheroots along, I was conscious that they were probably among the only ones in all Westeros. Ensuring myself a supply of the weed would be a project after my own heart. Of course, I could send to Britain, but I have had enough sure-fire schemes go sour to want to ensure success if at all possible. And tobacco was a lucrative crop at home; possibly we could invest enough money to augment Elspeth’s fortune significantly. Much as I love her, I must admit that my sweet featherbrained wife has a greed past all satisfying.

“No, that they dinnae,” said Angus. “Now that ye mention it, though, I could poke aroun’ an’ see if the soil’s right. There might be mony ither crops they dinnae hae that’d dae well here. An’ puttin’ brass in these nobles’ pockets’d be a guid thing. They’ve got the right o’high an’ low justice, an’ havin’ them see us as guid tae hae about would make things surer.” 

That made excellent sense. But then, nobody ever went wrong by counting on a Scotsman’s money sense. I don’t know if it’s because they live in the arse-end of Britain in a place where the animals have to run from one blade of grass to the next to avoid starvation or not, but every one of those tartan buggers could smell a farthing from a hundred miles away, and would do whatever he could to get it. Even my loving Elspeth gets excited about raking in a few more coins: “mony a mickle mak’s a muckle,” to put it in her own Caledonian dialect. 

Just then, I heard a familiar voice at my ear. The sound of it was enough to send my heart sinking into my boots. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the famous Sir Harry Flashman! Very long time no see! Aye, gratis superveniet quae non sperabitur hora,(3) as I seem to remember saying to you once before! Every time I see you, you’ve gone up in the world since I saw you last!” With my blood turning to ice in my veins, I turned to find myself confronted with one of the last people I ever wanted to see again. John Charity Spring, sometime Oriel scholar (4), sometime captain of the Balliol College slaver (5), sometime South African magnate (6), and all-time murderous lunatic, was standing there, his pale eyes blazing out of a face twisted into a smile that would scare a tiger.

He had changed little since I’d seen him last, as he had me shanghaiied off to North America. He was still the same burly bargee I remembered, gray-haired and older than I, but well able to look out for himself in a brawl, as I’d discovered in New Orleans and elsewhere (7). The scar across his forehead, which turned redder the angrier he was, was pale, so at least he was in what passed, in him, for a good mood. 

He saw my expression. “Aye, ‘tis me! When I heard of this whole new world, all ripe for British commerce, I was right here as quickly as I could put things in train! Carpe diem! With my loving Miranda now safely married off…an’ to a man who owns half the Cape…there was little holding me in Africa. And plenty of good opportunities for me here! Ex Westeros hodie aliquid novi!”(8) His cold pale eyes ranged over the company. “Care to introduce me to your friends?”

I’d sooner have bidden ‘em to supper at Castle Borgia, but needs must when the devil vomits into your pantaloons. “Elspeth, may I present Captain John Charity Spring, M.A.? Captain, my wife, Lady Flashman. And this is Sir Richard Burton,” Dick raised one eyebrow and gave Spring stare-for-stare, but he was always a fearless bugger, “David Livingstone, and Angus Morrison. Mr. Morrison is my lady wife’s cousin.”

To my surprise, Spring stepped forward, gallantly kissing Elspeth’s hand. “Your humblest servant, m’lady,” he said, smooth as though he were being presented at Buck House, damn his impudence. “And I’ve followed your adventures, Sir Richard, but hadn’t heard of your knighthood till recently. Livingstone and Morrison I’ve met.” They all nodded. Livingstone was looking at him as though Spring was something he’d scraped off his shoe. (9) Well, the British colony in Kings Landing wasn’t that big, and I should’ve thought that if Spring was a member, he’d’ve run across them before. “Aye, well, it’s getting late. I’m for bed.” And he turned and walked off through the crowd, leaving me quaking in my boots. I knew him well, and knew the awful turns that diseased intelligence of his could take. What might he do now that we were in the same town again?

[1] Before contact with nineteenth-century Earth, Westeros, and the other countries in its world, had been at a roughly medieval level for millenia. “Brown Bess” --- the standard British flintlock musket used during the 18th and early 19th centuries --- had many advantages over their traditional weapons, ease of use and training being among them.

[2] The British .577-caliber Snider-Enfield was a breech-loader, the first cartridge-loading firearm used in the British service. It was roughly equivalent to the American “trapdoor” Springfield.

[3] “The happy hour will come, more gratifying for being unexpected.”

[4] Spring had once been a don at Oriel College, Oxford, until his expulsion from the college and university. The Flashman Papers do not include the reason for his dismissal.

[5] When Flashman first met him, Spring was the captain of a bark-rigged sailing ship, the Balliol College, used to transport slaves from Africa to Cuba in the illicit “triangle trade.” This was illegal under international law, but highly profitable.

[6] After an involuntary voyage to South Africa, Spring became a great landowner in the Cape Colony.

[7] See Flashman and the Redskins.

[8] “Today something new out of Westeros!”

[9] Livingstone was a prominent anti-slavery crusader, and may well have got wind of Spring’s earlier adventures in the “black ivory” trade.


	4. Chapter 4

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter Four

By the time King Robert came back from galavanting off to the North, we had the embassy in apple-pie order. Between Dick Burton’s gimlet eye, and Isabel’s and Elspeth’s experience running households, everything was running just as it ought to. We’d even managed to train local cooks to put on a fair imitation of English and Scotch cuisine. The locals’ reaction to such specialties as haggis, however, had convinced even Elspeth that such dishes were best kept for times when it was just us Britons, preferably all Scotch.

Along with Dick and Isabel Burton, Elspeth and I were at the Great Hall to welcome His drunken Majesty home. King Robert looked better than he had when he’d set out; it might have been that all he’d needed was a good long ride in the open air. Truth be told, Kings Landing was beginning to pall on me, and I thought I’d have been the better for a bit of travel. If I’d known just how much travel, and under what circumstances, I was about to get, I’d have turned tail and headed to England if I had to swim the whole way. 

I noted with interest that there had been some changes in the party’s makeup. Beside King Robert rode a tall, dark-haired man with the air of a warrior about him. One look at him convinced me that he was a killing gentleman, and that he was best treated with respect or left alone. Elspeth sighed at the sight of him, and I gave her a quizzy look. I’d put in some time studying Westerosi heraldry, which, luckily, wasn’t impossibly different from ours, so his surcoat told me that this was Eddard Stark, Lord of the North and master of Winterfell Castle.

This was a rum development if ever I’d seen one. My well-developed sense for impending danger was prickling slightly, but not more than usual; there was always danger nearby in Westeros. Ned Stark, from the reports we’d had on him (rather fragmentary, but there had been some contact between the Northerners and British sea captains looking for trade opportunities) was as unlike his lecherous, drunken overlord as it was possible to be. Stark had all the boring virtues I bar…he was hard-working, devoted solely to his wife, and a dedicated family man. One would think he’d have no common ground with King Robert, and yet the two were very firm friends. They’d collaborated to send Mad King Aerys to his reward and put Robert on the Iron Throne. What was Ned Stark doing so far south of his usual haunts? All our reports said that he never left his chilly home country.

I noticed some other things, and they didn’t seem to add up. Queen Cersei’s youngest brother, a dwarf named Tyrion, wasn’t to be seen, and yet he’d ridden out with the royal party on their way to Winterfell. Could the queen have finally managed to rid herself of him? I’d heard that she detested the air he breathed. And Ned Stark’s lady wife, Catelyn, was also not present. I did notice several other newcomers, though, including two girls…both of ‘em too young by half for me, worse luck. They were wearing the Stark colors, and I guessed they were Lord Stark’s daughters. The elder was a sweet-looking, demure creature who was staring about with wide eyes, while her younger sister was clearly bored, fidgeting like a Presbyterian at a mass.(1) 

With a flourish of trumpets, King Robert rose from the throne. “It is Our pleasure,” he wheezed, “to announce that We have chosen Lord Eddard Stark as the new Hand of the King. He shall have full power to act in Our name, and his acts shall be treated as Our own.” 

Now, this was interesting! I had expected Lord Tywin Lannister, the King’s father-in-law and biggest creditor, to be named to that post. I exchanged glances with Dick Burton, and I could see that his mind was working on the same question mine was: Was the Lannisters’ star fading at Court? 

I noticed that Stark wasn’t too pleased by this, but apparently felt that his king’s command was not something he could refuse. For the first time, I sympathized with him. I was there, after all, for much the same reason…our sovereign lady had tapped me, and I couldn’t say no, not and keep any shred of credit or my reputation. My knighthood and Cross (2) wouldn’t have availed me if Vicky had made it clear she was displeased, not to mention that Elspeth would be heartbroken at being told she was never to be bidden to Buck House or Balmoral again. For a second, I felt kinship with Stark, for all that he was a rather sour stick. 

However, Robert was by no means done speaking. “In honour of the arrival of my new Hand, I am proclaiming a tournament! There shall be cash prizes! Forty thousand dragons for the winner of the jousting, twenty thousand to the runner-up of the jousting and the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the winner of the archery contest! And a feast!” Littlefinger was standing nearby, and I saw him make a wry mouth at this. The Throne was already deep in debt, the treasury was all but empty, and tax revenue wasn’t coming in as easily as it would have done at home. One reason that the Westerosi had welcomed us was because we were willing to pay cash for trade concessions, and Britain represented a market for the things they produced. Some wines…Arbor Gold and Arbor Red, in particular…had proven to be very popular on the London market, fetching fat prices. And even with such as John Charity Spring acting as middlemen, the people who were selling to Britain were growing rich.

After we were back in the relative safety of the Embassy, Elspeth was all but transported, squealing delightedly about how much she was going to love watching the tournament, and how she hoped to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. (3) I hated to bring her back down to earth, but needs must. This is one of the things about being married that they don’t cover in those idiotic romance novels I see young girls devouring these days.

“Elspeth, darling, I hate to break it to you, but if Queen Cersei is there, she’ll almost certainly get the crown. Whoever’s the winner will want to curry favour with her and her husband.”

“Curry favour with her? But she and the King are on very bad terms! He hardly ever goes near her! He’s notorious for his letching around!” Now, this was something I’d not heard yet. Not that I was surprised; I knew that kings and royalty had opportunities for exercising Adam’s arsenal that mere common folk such as I would cheerfully commit murder for. And Elspeth, for all her surface silliness, has an ear for scandal that a Gilzai would envy. Still and all, Robert depended heavily on his wife’s family’s wealth to keep his court and kingdom afloat, and Cersei, whatever else could be said about her, was a real beauty. 

I gave Elspeth a long, considering look, which, fortunately for me, she didn’t particularly notice. I’d never caught her putting antlers on my head, but that meant nothing…she’d never caught me in flagrante, and I’d had more than enough to make a hand-rail around Hyde Park. And Elspeth was still a beauty in her own right, as well as being prone to being dazzled by a crown. I’d have to keep a very close eye on her when Robert was about. Even as fat and decrepit as he was, I’d not put it past Elspeth to try to add him to her little list of conquests.

The announcement of the upcoming tournament had the Red Keep abuzz. The kitchens were working triple overtime to prepare the foods that would be needed, and knights were coming in from all over Westeros to try their luck. One, in particular, caught my eye.

“Good God! What is that?” I had never seen such a large person before in my life. The knight I was looking at from the safety of our embassy’s parapets was a giant, riding along on what looked to me to be a Percheron. Even so, his poor horse looked rather overburdened. 

One of the embassy servants came over to see what I was looking at. “Oh. That’s Ser Gregor Clegane. They call him the Mountain-that-Rides. He’s here for the tournament.” 

“Oh, dear Lord!” I’m not much on feeling sorry for folk, but I pitied whatever poor wretch of a knight was going to be pitted against that monster. “I’d not get into the lists with him for a pension!” 

“I see what you mean!” Dick Burton had also seen the giant knight. Not much ever scared Ruffian Dick, but I would say the sight of that man and the sheer size of him at least took him aback. “This is one time I’m really glad I didn’t jaw to the King or his cronies about what I’ve done! I’ve no desire at all to face that with nothing but a lance!” Dick had a well-earned reputation as a deadly fighter, but neither he nor I had ever done any real jousting, although we could both skewer tent-pegs with the best of ‘em. 

I wondered if King Robert or Ned Stark were going to be riding in the tournament. From what the servants’ grapevine and such other sources of information as we had could tell us, Ned, at least, considered the whole thing a foolish waste of time and money, and would have loved to call the whole thing off. Dick and I both had had enough experience to set up a network of people who reported to us; we weren’t foolish enough to think that this had escaped Varys’ attention, or that we weren’t getting more-or-less what he wanted us to, but it was early days yet and Varys’ bandobast (4) was years in the making. 

Meanwhile, work at the embassy went on. Safely ensconced behind a desk in a cozy office, I dutifully scribbled away like any Cratchit, writing reports on what our informants had to say about Westerosi conditions. This was just nuts to a chap like me; easy work, in a warm, well-lit place, with good food, plenty of drink, and Elspeth not far away. Of course, with Elspeth right there, and the servants having eyes in their bums, I didn’t dare go looking for strange beauties, but Elspeth’s endless enthusiasm for a touch of Harry in the night made that no hardship. 

As ambassador, Dick had his hands full and then some. Not only was he the final authority on all things pertaining to our relations with Westeros, but he had a full social schedule, what with all the ambitious hostesses in Kings Landing sending invitations to the exotic ambassador from another world. He bore up under the burden, and from what I could see (Elspeth and I were often invited along) he was becoming quite popular. The Westerosi were just as curious about our world as we were about theirs, and both Dick and I were well-chosen to answer many of their questions. 

` We weren’t the only foreigners making the rounds of Kings Landing society that Season. Another popular guest was one Jalabhar Xho, a nigger popinjay in a feathered cloak, who claimed to be a prince from someplace called the Summer Isles. I saw Elspeth giving him a few appraising looks, but after our experiences with Suleiman Usman, (5) I was fairly sure that whatever other fancy-men she might pursue in my absence, she drew the line at dark meat. 

We invited Jalabhar over to the embassy a couple of times, to pump him for information about his home. From what he said, it sounded a right paradise, where the “Arts of Love” were studied openly and practiced assiduously. I made a mental note that the Summer Isles sounded like just the sort of place for me, and wondered how I could persuade Dick (and Elspeth!) to detach me to investigate them in detail. 

Another foreign guest we met at quite a few Society dos was one Thoros of Myr, a priest of some sort of fire god. He was quite a jolly companion, not at all devout from what I could tell, with a great fund of stories. He looked forward to the tournament, since he planned to ride in it. “I’ve a surprise for you that I’ll wager none of you have ever seen!” he winked at me one evening, when the Arbor Red and Gold had been flowing freely. He was a fountain of information about the King and Court, having been sent originally from his home to try to convert the late King Aerys. It seemed the higher-ups of his order had heard about Aerys’ fascination with fire, and had thought him ripe for conversion, but it hadn’t gone well. 

Our sources said that Eddard Stark was settling in as Hand of the King, and bid fair to be the new broom that swept clean. I wished him luck; in my (considerable) experience, new brooms often tend to be broken. I also wondered why his lady wife wasn’t along; she was reputed to be devoted to him, and he to her. Their oldest son, one Robb, was considered old enough to take command of Winterfell, particularly since no war was in the offing. His two youngest sons had also stayed behind with their mother. 

That made me wonder: Did Ned Stark know things we didn’t know about the situation here? Granted, he had apparently been content to stay far in the North, but as a Westerosi nobleman, he’d almost certainly have eyes-and-ears at the royal court. Had he kept his nearest-and-dearest at home because that way, they’d be out of the line of fire? But, if so, why were his daughters here? More mysteries to solve.

Dick agreed with me, when we had a chance to confer privately. “Westeros, Harry, is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,” he said ruefully. “I mean, there’s still things we don’t know about India, and we’ve been in touch with them since good Queen Bess’ day! There are whole areas here…Dorne, the Iron Islands, and such…that we’ve not yet even contacted! Who knows what’s there?”

“Whom, indeed?” I mused. “King Robert may be contemplating a match between his eldest and Ned Stark’s oldest daughter. They’re much of an age, and from what I could see, the Stark chit’s enamored of Prince Joffrey.”

“Good luck to her!” Dick’s laugh was not very kind. “You’ve seen the reports on Joff. If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t let that little wretch within miles of her!” 

I had to agree. From what our informants said, Joffrey Baratheon was a spoiled, arrogant, cruel boy, who could shield his true nature behind some superficial charm. To a naïve young girl with little experience of the world, he might seem like a dream come true. But I feared that this particular dream would become a nightmare. 

“Here’s to a long, long reign for King Robert,” I said, raising my glass of Arbor Gold. 

“Hear, hear!” Dick raised his glass, we clinked them, and drank to the health of the King.

(1) This is a reference to Sansa and Arya Stark, the daughters of Eddard and Catelyn Stark.

(2) Flashman had been knighted, and won the Victoria Cross, for his services during the Indian Mutiny. See Flashman in the Great Game.

(3) As was the custom in late-medieval Europe, many Westerosi tournaments featured the crowning of a "Queen of Love and Beauty" by whoever won the tournament. This was a source of great rivalry among the noblewomen.

(4) Bandobast: A Hindi word used by the British in India and elsewhere, meaning "organization."

(5) After attracting the attention of the Malay pirate Suleiman Usman, who was known in England as Solomon Haslam, Elspeth had been kidnapped and carried to present-day Malaysia. She, and Flashman, ended up as captives of the mad queen Ranavalona II of Madagascar, escaping only by pure luck. See Flashman's Lady.

END Chapter Four


	5. Chapter 5

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 5

by Technomad

 

As it happened, I never did get to see the great tournament in honour of the new Hand of the King. Unconscionably early one morning, I found myself being routed out of bed by one of our locally-hired servants. “Terribly sorry to disturb you, Ser Harry, but Ser Richard wants to see you.”

Had I been alone, I’d have been tempted to give the servant a sound thrashing for wakening a gentleman, or at least damned his impudence. Along with the rest of the Embassy staff, and our Marine officers, I’d been at a banquet with King Robert the night before, and keeping up with His sodden Majesty had been about all I could do. That man could have drunk a Scotch regiment under the table and never noticed it. 

By the time we were finally released back to our embassy, all of us were reeling, men and women alike. Unlike our prudish countrywomen, women in Westeros could and did drink openly, and not just wine…strongwine(1) had been flowing like water, and many of our womenfolk had partaken more freely than had been wise. Beside me, Elspeth was utterly dead to the world, and while I still wanted to strangle whichever idiot had thought sending for me right then was a good idea, it occurred to me that getting well out of Elspeth’s presence before she woke up to discover the joys of a good hangover was an excellent idea.

Shortly thereafter, bathed, dressed, shaven and at least able to convincingly simulate being human, I was knocking at Dick Burton’s door. Upon being invited in, I noticed that he, too, looked much the worse for wear. Not waiting for an invitation, I planted my arse in a chair, and for a few minutes, we suffered together in silence. 

“Flash,” he finally croaked, “I didn’t call on you just to drag you out of your sleep. We’ve a crisis on hand, and need to deal with it, toute-suite.”

Right then, the only crisis that interested me was whether I could make it to the garderobe before my guts rebelled, but I forced myself to nod, despite the fact that doing so made my head feel like it was about to fall off and roll around the floor. “What’s happened?” I mumbled. I hoped it was something I could deal with after I got some more sleep.

“We got word just now that David Livingstone’s in trouble. He was preaching up in Fairmarket, and some septons took offence at his preaching. They got the local authorities to throw him into gaol, and there he sits. We’ve got to get him back out. British prestige can’t survive allowing things like this to pass.”

At that particular moment, British prestige, particularly in the person of David Livingstone, could go hang itself with my compliments, and I’d have been delighted to tie the noose myself. My mouth tasted like the bottom of Satan’s birdcage, and I had a headache that made me long for death. Dick looked at me sympathetically. 

“I’ll give you the rest of the day to get yourself back in one piece, Harry, but we must have him back as quickly as possible. Her Majesty thinks the world of the fool, and would not be pleased at all if she found we’d left him in the hands of the local authorities.” 

And that, of course, was that. Our sovereign lady was a pious woman, and would not suffer a “man of God” to have to sit in a heathen’s gaol cell. Nothing for it but that old Flashy had to go out, hangover or no, and pull Livingstone’s hot chestnuts out of the fire he’d apparently thrown them into. 

When Elspeth found out that I was leaving, she merely shook her head and muttered: “Have a nice trip, my jo,” before turning an unbecoming shade of green and bolting for the jakes with her hand over her mouth. At the banquet, she had unwisely told King Robert about Scotch drinking habits, and he had challenged her to back her words with deeds. To give my lovely woodentop her due, she had done Scotland very proud, staying conscious nearly as long as the King did. Before he slid out of his chair, signalling the end of the banquet, King Robert planted a smacking kiss on her cheek and said that if all Scotchwomen were like her, he wanted to pay Scotland a visit. 

When I trotted out of the gate of Kings Landing, with an escort of royal soldiers to guide me,(2) I was hoping that King Robert had been too drunk to remember all that had happened the night before. I knew Elspeth, and while I’d never caught her in flagrante delicto, I was quite sure she’d not hesitate if King Robert crooked a finger at her. And while Queen Cersei didn’t seem to have much time for her husband, she might just take action if the King and Elspeth became an item, which would complicate our lives enormously in many ways.

I’d not been outside of Kings Landing since we arrived, being taken up with getting the embassy up and running, as well as the capital city’s social whirl. I looked around myself, taking note of everything; Dick would be questioning me closely when I returned. 

Overall, what I saw reminded me of England. I felt a moment’s twinge of homesickness. Rolling hills dotted with patches of forest, with contented-looking peasants bringing in a harvest; I could almost have been back in Rutland. The animals and people looked well-fed, and the houses, while old-fashioned, were sturdily built. I remembered that seasons lasted for years in Westeros, instead of mere months as they do with us, and wondered how much food could be stored up against a winter that could last for several years. 

The ride to Fairmarket wasn’t difficult, and the inns we found to stay in were all cosy and featured good drink and food, so I enjoyed the trip. We rode on into Fairmarket and I found the local magnate, a minor knight named Ser Aemon Rivers. From his last name, I knew that he, or some ancestor of his, had been born on the wrong side of the blankets,(3) but that was neither here nor there to me. God knows, I’ve probably sired enough sprogs outside of lawful matrimony in my time; the only one I’ve ever met for sure turned up as, of all things, a Sioux warrior who saved my life at Greasy Grass. 

I presented my credentials, and explained the situation. Ser Aemon was very interested; other than David Livingstone, I was the first Briton he’d ever met. “You’ll have to stay with me, Ser Harry, if that’s all right. I’ll want to hear all about your homeland.” Since his manor house looked very pleasant, I was agreeable. 

Ser Aemon turned out to be a very reasonable chap, as well as a jolly host. “Of course, I’ll release Mister Livingstone,” he said. “I locked him up partly for his own safety; some of the septons we have are a trifle intolerant of other faiths, I fear.” I nodded, my attention being taken up by a fetching woman seated at the same table as we were. Discreet inquiry uncovered some interesting things about her; her name was Amerei Pate,(4) the wife of one of the local “hedge knights,” but her byename was “Gatehouse Amerei,” because she raised her gates for anybody who happened by.

Now, this was interesting! I found out that Ser Pate was not close by, having been summoned to Riverrun, the castle of the Tully clan, who claimed overlordship of the river valley. Amerei was looking back at me, and from what I saw, the signals were clear. I knew I’d have to stay on there a few days, just to make sure that all was well and that dear David was safely on his way.

Ser Aemon was glad to hear that I wanted to stay on. As I’ve said, he was quite curious about Britain, and from what he said, he’d have been glad to go there. For a chance at Amerei, I was happy to spin endless tales of life in Britain and its manifold wonders. 

Once Livingstone was at liberty, I urged him to head back to Kings Landing as fast as his horse could carry him. “I barely managed to beg your life from Ser Aemon. He’s a devout follower of the Seven Gods, and he was baying for your blood. Ride hard for Kings Landing, and for the love of the Lord, keep your mouth shut!” Since he was wearing local clothes, there was no reason for anybody to pay him any particular mind unless his mad urge to proselytise got the best of him. I detailed half of my guards to go along with him, ostensibly for his protection, but in actuality to keep him under control. 

Once I’d seen Livingstone off on the high road to Kings Landing, I strolled back to Ser Aemon’s manor, where I anticipated a pleasant few days’ stay. I was not disappointed; for all her weak chin, Amerei was well titted-out and quite skilled in the arts of love, with an appetite for Adam’s arsenal that never faltered. After a steady diet of one woman, even though that woman was Elspeth, I was glad of a change, and responded eagerly.

However, out of bed, her company grew stale rather quickly; she was stupid enough to make my loving Elspeth look like a proper genius, and much too loose-mouthed about her former conquests for my taste. I’d no intention of featuring in her bedroom boastings to her next fancy-man, and in any case, the tournament was coming up and I wanted to be there to keep an eye on my loving Elspeth. On the morning of the third day I was there, I packed my traps, made my farewells to Ser Aemon and his lady wife, and rode for Kings Landing with the remainder of my escort detail.

Bouncing about in bed with an enthusiastic partner always puts me in a good mood, so I was feeling rather chipper as we rode along. I should have known…that feeling always provokes the Fates to find the nearest steaming pile of trouble to throw Flashy into, for the sport of seeing me struggling free. 

As evening came on, my escort and I came to an inn at a crossroads, which we’d stayed at on the way North. Nothing loath, I dismounted and let the stable-boys take care of my steed before walking on in and obtaining the innkeeper’s best two rooms. It was a good thing we did, because shortly thereafter, another party came up, only to be told that the inn was all but full.

“I don’t need much room,” said the leader of the party. I thought I recognised that voice, and took a look over at its owner. Sure enough, it was Tyrion Lannister, brother-in-law to the King and son of the richest lord in the whole Seven Kingdoms. I thought I scented an opportunity.

“My lord?” I called over to him. “I’d be honoured if you would share my quarters for the night, and tomorrow, we can ride for Kings Landing together. I’d be interested in what you have to say of the North. I’ve never been there, myself, but part of my mission is to gather information for my queen.” Which was toadying, a bit, if you like, but what little contact I’d had with Lord Tyrion had given me the impression that he’d be a good sort to cultivate. 

Tyrion smiled, a rather frightening sight. “Ser Harry Flashman, I believe? I’d be delighted to accept your kind offer!” He came over and sat down beside me, as the innkeeper began racking her brains about where to put his men. For an important noble, he didn’t travel in much state, but even so, the inn was just about full.

The dwarf lord turned out to be a fountain of information about the North; he’d been as far as the Wall, and had stood at the top of it looking north into the wild lands beyond. Some of what he said was hard to believe, such as that the Wall was all of 700 feet tall.(5) However, I filed everything he said away in my mind, to be written down later for our files at the embassy. I liked this soft assignment, and wanted to keep it; showing willing when work was to do was one way to make that happen. Dick Burton had a keen eye for shirkers and I’d no intention of incurring his displeasure. 

We were so busy talking, we didn’t notice that some newcomers had come in. We noticed them, though, when a woman’s shout rang through the rumble of talk in the common room: “Arrest that man! He tried to murder my son!” All of a sudden, we were surrounded by armed men, all of them pointing swords at us.

Running was out of the question; I’d have been skewered on the instant. And, like a fool, I’d left my Baby Dragoon in my room. Bluffing would have to do. Standing to my full height, I roared: “Damn your impudence! I am Ser Harry Flashman, an emissary of her gracious majesty Queen Victoria of Great Britain, and this is Lord Tyrion Lannister, brother-in-law to the King! How dare you treat us as common felons?” 

It’s that regimental manner that throws them aback, I’ve found. The men surrounding us were suddenly unsure of what they were doing. The woman who’d started it all came forward. She was red-headed and not at all bad-looking; if things had been different, I’d have been willing enough to chat her up and see if she was interested in a touch of Harry in the night. However, I do bar women who’re trying to have me arrested, particularly for a crime I never even dreamed of committing. 

“Oh, you’re an emissary of the British?” she purred mockingly. “Well, emissary, I am Lady Catelyn Tully Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, wife to the Hand of the King, and daughter to Lord Hoster Tully, ruler of these lands, and these men all owe allegiance to my natal House! If you wish to shield this murderer, this betrayer of hospitality, then you may share his fate, emissary or no emissary! Seize them! Seize them both, the dwarf and the Englishman!”

And that was that. We were unceremoniously bundled out of the inn, over the protests of the innkeep, who didn’t want the great ones carrying on their quarrels in her inn. I would have joined my voice to hers, promising those thrice-damned fools the wealth of Golconda for letting me go, but there was a blade at my throat and its wielder seemed very eager to slit my weazand for me. As we were loaded on horses, Lady Catelyn ordered: “We ride for Winterfell! They shall answer for their crimes there!” And off we galloped on the north road, just the direction I did not want to go. My only hope was that my men had heard the uproar and had the wit to ride hard for Kings Landing. King Robert wasn’t the person I’d have chosen to confide my safety to, but he’d have to do something about his own brother-in-law and an important foreign dignitary being kidnapped.

Wouldn’t he? As we rode away, I cursed my doubts.

[1] Strongwine was a drink made by taking hard cider or wine, freezing it and throwing away the ice, then re-freezing it, until it would no longer freeze. In strength, it ranged to just a bit stronger than wine or cider on up to nearly as strong as distilled liquor.

[2] The Royal Marines are not trained in equitation, and would not have been suitable for this journey.

[3] In the Seven Kingdoms, bastards are always given a surname based on where they were born. In the Riverlands, they are “Rivers,” while in the North, they are all “Snow,” on the Iron Islands, “Pyke,” and so on. Since these are hereditary in the same fashion as other surnames, bearing that particular surname does not mean that the bearer is illegitimate.

[4] “Gatehouse Amerei” Frey, the daughter of Merrett “Muttonhead” Frey and granddaughter of Lord Walder Frey of the Twins. Long before she met Flashman, she was a byeword for unchastity.

[5] While Flashman found it hard to believe, the Wall at the northern edge of the Seven Kingdoms really was all of 700 feet tall. How it was built is a mystery; the building is shrouded in legend and myth.


	6. Chapter 6

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 6

by Technomad

 

We were hoodwinked, and weren’t let speak until that evening. Even then, we were not allowed to speak to our guards. But we were close enough that I could whisper to Tyrion: “How far is it to Winterfell?” The dwarf had been down that road, and I needed to tap his expertise. I also cursed the fact that I wasn’t more au fait with Westerosi geography. If Winterfell was close to the ocean, we could possibly overawe Lady Catelyn into releasing me by letting her see one of Her Majesty’s ironclads off-shore, or possibly even unloading a few regiments of King Robert’s troops. The local forces would almost certainly outnumber them, but by that time, most of King Robert’s own household force had been re-equipped with Brown Bess, and could at least call themselves half-trained. And gunpowder’s a powerful force-multiplier, at least against folk that don’t have it.

Tyrion gave me a bitter smile. “This isn’t the road to Winterfell!”

At that, I felt that cold feeling again, like an owl made of ice was trapped in my innards and trying to flap its way free. “It isn’t? Then where are we going?” And, I asked myself, how would I be rescued if my guards didn’t know where I was? Westeros was a huge place, easily the size of all of Europe. One lone Englishman could be lost there very easily.

Tyrion looked around warily; all our guards were otherwise occupied, so he leaned closer. “This is the road to the Vale of Arryn. Lady Catelyn’s sister, Lysa, rules there, in the name of her young son, Robert Arryn.”

Now, this was interesting. I remembered that the last King’s Hand had been a “Jon Arryn.” Was this some sort of relation? When I put the question to Tyrion, he nodded.

“Lady Lysa is the widow of the late Hand. After her husband’s death, she took her son and fled to the Vale, fearing enemies. My father, and various other nobles, offered to foster young Lord Robert, but she’d have none of it.(1) The Vale, and the Eyrie castle in particular, is the only place she feels safe.”

Just then, our guards started paying attention to us again, and I shut up. Tyrion had given me a lot to think about. 

Once we’d crossed over into the hills, I noticed that our guards were tightening their scrutiny. They behaved like soldiers being sent into the Khyber Pass, and I wondered just what was going on. Tyrion had been working on some of the guards, and he was willing to share what he knew with me. He had quite taken to me; many folk do, God knows why. 

“The Vale of Arryn isn’t as pacified as most of Westeros, Ser Harry. There are tribes of wild men here, and they’ll attack if they sense that we’re weak or off-guard.(2) They’re dangerous!” 

The Vale of Arryn sounded more like Afghanistan the more I heard, and the more I heard, the less I liked it. For all that I’d friends among the Pathan, as well as the peoples to their north who were still fighting the Russians, (3) I could have lived the rest of my life perfectly happily never going near the uncomfortable, dangerous place again. And to be dragged into such a place as punishment for a crime I’d never even contemplated, much less committed…words fail me!

We were soon heading up, into what I found were called the Mountains of the Moon. That gave me a moment’s bitter memory, of listening to Dick Burton telling me of his great quest to find the source of the Nile. I wished Dick were there. I felt very alone, among all the Westerosi. Even Lord Tyrion, companion in misfortune though he was, was not an Englishman. 

They were no longer tying us up, and we’d had our hoodwinks removed after a few days, which had been an enormous relief. However, there was still no escape; the terrain was mountainous and the path we were on was the only safe route through, as far as I could see. It was perfect ambush country, I noted uneasily. My old Pathan friends would have been licking their lips. 

And, sure enough, a few days later, there was an attack. A bunch of hairy barbarians came storming out of the wilderness, screaming and waving what were, even for a medieval hellhole such as Westeros, very primitive weapons. But there were enough of them to constitute a danger. We’d been in the process of butchering Lord Tyrion’s horse, since we were short of food, and most of us weren’t mounted, while the enemy mostly were.

Cursing the fate that had separated me from my Baby Dragoon, I yelled: “A sword! Give me a sword!” The enemy were mounted, and I knew that running was completely futile. I’d seen enough routs in my time (4) to know that fighting, however dangerous it might be, was much safer than trying to get away. Not that there was anywhere I could get to. I was thoroughly turned around, and if I’d left the path, I’d have been lost and alone in the mountains, without so much as a lucifer match to make a fire with, much less any idea of where to go.

Someone tossed me a sword. And not a second too soon, either; a howling madman in a fur cloak came shrieking at me, waving an old rusty sword. He swung, but I could tell he’d never been taught to use his weapon properly, and I parried his swing, thrusting up and through his body to send him howling off his horse. He was finished off by Tyrion, of all people. The dwarf had enough courage for any knight; he’d got an axe from somewhere, and was making good use of it. 

In the chaos, I noticed that a singer who had come along “to make a song of this” was cowering under a log, screaming like a lost soul. (5) I would have joined him, but there just wasn’t a chance. Wild men were everywhere, and I had to spin and leap and fight like five men just to stay alive. Everybody was being attacked, and nowhere was safe. 

I noticed Lady Catelyn being menaced by a couple of those tribesmen. If I’d had a chance to think, I’d likely have let them have her; she was the author of all my misery and without her I’d not have been within a hundred miles of that cursed path. But, instead, I came charging to the rescue, with Tyrion, of all people, right beside me. I stabbed one of the enemy, and Tyrion took the other out with his axe, very efficiently, I must admit. Lady Catelyn looked at both of us, wild-eyed, and I turned around, putting her behind my back as I looked around for more enemies. 

But they were all gone. The only tribesmen that were left were dead, along with some of our own folk. We set to, tending the wounded as best we could and getting ready to ride. The closest safe place was the Vale of Arryn itself, and after what we’d been through, it sounded like just the place I wanted to be. Rather to my surprise, Tyrion and I were not disarmed. Against the mountain clans, it seemed, flatland quarrels took second place.(6) Tyrion, I noticed, had also acquired a fine fur cloak that I’d last seen about the shoulders of one of the tribesmen. I’d have given a lot for that cloak myself, but saw no chance of getting it away from him.

We were riding near Lady Catelyn, and she was saying that she’d accused Lord Tyrion of attempting to murder her son because the assassin had been using a dagger that had belonged to Lord Tyrion. He asked her how he had been supposed to lose it; the dagger had been made of Valyrian steel and since the methods of making that had been lost centuries ago, even a small knife of the stuff was valuable. When she told him, he scoffed: “They said that I lost it, betting that Jaime would lose his joust? My lady, I may do a lot of things, but I never bet against my family!”

When we came into the Vale of Arryn myself, I was very glad to see it. By this time, I’d calmed down, and had remembered that not only was I completely innocent of wrongdoing, for once, but I was “Ser” Harry Flashman, second-in-charge at the embassy of Her Majesty in Kings Landing, and once Lady Lysa knew who I was, she’d be bound to have me released. More fool I.

The road to the Eyrie itself was difficult; the castle was built on a mountaintop so steep that I’d not have believed it had I not seen it for myself. There were several subsidiary castles on the road, and we would stop for the night at one, since trying to negotiate the path without light was dangerous at best. Up and up and up we went, until we finally came to a place where even the surest-footed mules (our horses had long since been left behind) could go no farther. I looked up at the castle, still a long ways above us, and then at the ladder-like arrangement set in the side of the mountain to climb up into it. 

“Afraid, Ser Harry?” That was Catelyn Stark, damn her eyes. I gave her a look that would have left her dead if looks could kill, and set to climbing. It was a long, difficult climb, and I had to admire whoever had been brave, or mad, enough to go to the labour of building a castle on such an inaccessable pinnacle. It made the Abyssinian ambas I had seen look like nothing much.(7) Emperor Theodore would have been absolutely sea-green with envy if he could have seen it. 

By the time I hauled myself up the last bit and into the castle proper, I was aching all over and wanting to collapse, groaning and whimpering. I could have done the climb easily in my younger years, but I was closing in on my fiftieth birthday, and at that time of life, one’s joints and old injuries have ways of expressing their displeasure. Not to mention years of too much tuck and drink. 

Tyrion rode up in the basket they kept for hoisting supplies up into the castle. The professional side of me wondered how well-found for food the Eyrie was. While it was impossible to storm, that did not mean that it was impossible to take. Hunger had decided many sieges in the past. And the Eyrie would be difficult to re-victual even under normal circumstances. 

Lady Catelyn, of course, had ridden up in the same hoist they used for Tyrion, and was looking, relatively speaking, fresh as a daisy. She looked me up and down like I was something she wasn’t sure was worth buying. “Well. I guess you’ll have to do. Come along. My sister and her son are waiting for us.” Since the guards were right there, there was nothing Tyrion or I could do but follow along in her wake like ducklings following their mother. As we walked along, I imagined all sorts of horrible fates befalling her. Boiling in oil was too good for her. Without her damnable interference, I’d have been safe and sound in Kings Landing, tucked up in bed with my lawful brainless beauty. 

Lady Catelyn’s sister, Lady Lysa, wasn’t a patch on Lady Catelyn. About the only thing that marked them as sisters was their complexions, and the luxurious auburn hair they shared. For all my hatred of her, Lady Catelyn was an eminently beddable bundle, but her sister would have had a hard time getting male attention in a garrison that had been cut off and besieged and hadn’t seen a white woman in over a year. Behind her, I noticed a sickly-looking child, but I paid him no mind at the time. 

The sisters embraced, murmuring affectionately, before Lady Catelyn turned and said: “Sister, let me introduce you to Lord Tyrion Lannister, and Ser Harry Flashman, the envoy from Britain.” Lady Lysa looked us up and down, wrinkling her nose, before giving her sister a look that promised future trouble. 

I sensed an opportunity. Stepping forward, I made my best leg (not as good as usual, but I was still aching all over from the climb) and said: “A pleasure to meet you, my lady. Please allow me to assure you that I am innocent of any crime, and that if I am returned to Kings Landing at once, there will be no trouble with my Queen…” Just then, one of the guards stepped forward and grabbed me, slapping his hand over my mouth to silence me. 

“You will remain silent, Englishman,” said Lady Catelyn. She turned to her sister. “Do you have any of the sky cells vacant? A spell in them will soften these two up.” 

“Yes, Cat, I do have one available. We’ll put them in and see how much lies they can remember to tell after a spell in there.”

Lady Catelyn gave us a very crooked grin…she was damnably attractive with it too, blast her! “I do hope you enjoy your stay, my lord, Ser Harry,” she purred mockingly as we were led away. “You’ll find that the dungeons here at the Eyrie are the only ones from which prisoners may escape at will!”

Before we were out of earshot, I heard Lady Lysa shouting: “Cat, are you insane? What do you mean, dragging them here? Do you think I want trouble with the Lannisters?” I hoped it was a good omen; I was badly in need of one. At least, I’d been in enough dungeons and cells and the like to have a fair idea of what awaited me.

Or so I thought.

(1) Robert Arryn, Lord of the Vale, was a sickly child, and his mother may have honestly not felt that he was safe in another’s hands. Since fosterage could also be very rough on the fostered boys, she may have had a point.   
(2) The mountain clans were the remnants of the original aboriginal inhabitants of the area, who had been pushed into the inhospitable mountains by waves of invaders. By the time of Westeros’ discovery by Britain, they were extremely poor and primitive, even by Westerosi standards.  
(3) See Flashman, Flashman at the Charge, Flashman in the Great Game, and other writings in the Flashman Papers. Sir Harry had indeed spent a lot of time among the wild peoples of Afghanistan and Central Asia, and knew them well.  
(4) Flashman’s first military expedition had ended in a rout. See Flashman.  
(5) This singer was almost certainly Marillion, whose songs provide a great deal of information to the student about events during this period.   
(6) This was true; the mountain clans’ hands were against all flatlanders equally at this time.  
(7) An amba was an Ethiopian fortification or fortified town, built on a hill or tableland for better defence. Flashman had seen them in his time in Ethiopia.


	7. Chapter 7

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter Seven

by Technomad

 

I had to admit, for all her other faults, Catelyn Stark was no liar. The dungeons at the Eyrie were designed to allow their victims to leave at any time they wanted. They were open chambers in the side of a cliff fully six hundred feet above the ground, with floors that slanted toward the open side. Unless one were released, the only way out was to jump. And I noticed, with a shudder, that some poor soul had written on the wall: Gods help me, the blue is calling!

I’ve been in a good few dungeons in my time, but this was easily the worst I’d ever struck. The designer must have been a devil who got up early every morning to sharpen his horns. To cap things off, it was cold and windy and all I had to bless myself with for warmth was a couple of ratty old blankets that somebody or other had left behind. I hoped they didn’t belong to that poor wretch who had written on the wall. I’m not a superstitous man, but that would strike me as deucedly unlucky.

One stroke of good luck was that they’d bunged Lord Tyrion in with me. The dwarf lord was good company, with a great store of stories and gossip about the royal family. Over the next few days, he let me in on quite a few stories about their past lives, and, reflexively, I made mental notes. If I got out of this pickle alive, Dick Burton would want to know all of these things. 

Our gaolor, a brute named Mord, delighted in tormenting us. When he reluctantly gave us the slop we were supposed to eat, he would do his best to goad us into trying to do something to him. I didn’t much fancy my chances; he was big, ugly and almost certainly had guards backing him up out of our immediate line of sight. However, when he started threatening to throw Lord Tyrion over the side, I felt I had to do something. Normally, standing up to a man-monster of his sort is one of the last things I want to do, but even if I got out of this mess alive, reporting back to Kings Landing without Lord Tyrion would be very bad for me. 

Mord discounted me, the fool, being focussed on Lord Tyrion. When he made the mistake of coming all the way into our cell, I pounced. While I bar hand-to-hand fighting as a rule, I did not spend years at Rugby without learning a good deal on that subject. It was the only way one could survive there. And even though I was not quite what I had once been, I’m six foot tall, fourteen stone (or a little less at the time; we’d not been fed well at all) and strong. And, as I’ve commented elsewhere in these memoirs, Flashy, when cornered, is a formidable opponent. (1)

Before Mord knew just what had hit him, I’d knocked him down, and was dragging him over to the edge to where he could get a good long look at the six-hundred-foot drop that yawned below our cell. “See that?” I snarled in his ear. “Fancy trying to find out if you can grow wings, you bastard?” I’d been working up a good head of rage, and having someone to take it out on was just nuts to me. I’d done something very similar before, in Germany (2) so this was nothing I couldn’t handle.

If Lord Tyrion hadn’t yelled: “No! Don’t kill him, Ser Harry!” I might have done just that, and be damned to the consequences. I was furious enough to forget to be afraid, and this damned brute was too much like various swine who’ve tried to cancel Flashy’s birth certificate for my taste. Giving him a sample of what I’d seen Yondo given in Abyssinia (3) would have felt very good. 

Lord Tyrion came up beside Mord, who was gurgling and struggling; the arm I had across his throat, in best Rugby dormitory style, made it difficult for the poor lamb to breathe. “Tell Lady Catelyn…” he began, then his face lit up. “Tell Lady Catelyn that I want to confess!” He then turned to me. “Let him go, Ser Harry. I need him to carry the message back to his mistress.” I gave him an are-you-off-your-bloody-loaf look, and he smiled and gave me a wink. “Just do it. Please.” 

In our short acquaintance, I’d formed a healthy respect for Lord Tyrion’s brains, and I decided to put my trust in him. I let Mord up. He was gasping and shaking, and I reluctantly hauled him back from the edge, much as I would have preferred to kick the swine into space. “The blue is calling,” indeed!

Tyrion was talking fast. “Do you like gold, Mord?” The great fool nodded. “Well, I have gold. Don’t have it on me, but I do have it! You’ve heard how rich we Lannisters are, haven’t you?” Another nod. “Go and tell Lady Catelyn that I want to confess my crimes, and you’ll have all the gold I have with me!” At this, the moron’s face lit up. I’d not have trusted any such promise for a second, but we were dealing with someone who made an ox look a proper genius. Mord scampered for the door (and I spared a moment’s regret at not having slipped through it when we got him down, instead of wasting my time on futile revenges) and shut it behind him. 

When he was gone, I gave Lord Tyrion a look. “So what’s your cunning plan, then?” 

Lord Tyrion grinned wickedly at me. “You’ll see, Ser Harry. And, by the way…thanks for helping out. You’ve a Lannister in your debt, and we pay our debts.”

I gave a modest shrug. “All in a day’s work, m’lord. You speak as though this were something unusual.” Believe me, I’d have much preferred this be an unusual occurrence, but ever since I was expelled from Rugby, this has been the pattern of my life; getting thrown into some impossible situation, bluffing, running, dodging for cover and blaming others till I get out, and then finding myself in an even more impossible situation. Honestly, I sometimes feel as though I’ve been dropped into one of those improbable boys’ adventure novels. And if that were so, I’d give all the wealth of the Indies to have my fingers about the author’s neck, just for five minutes!

A little while later, we were greeted by a squadron of soldiers wearing the Tully colours, who marched in and escorted us out. As we were marched through the halls, I noted in passing that they weren’t too well-kept-up. I wondered who Lysa Tully had in charge of the castle. If Elspeth had seen Gandamack Lodge (4), or our townhouse in Berkeley Square, in such a state there’d have been some servants out on the street, toute-suite. Elspeth, bless her bonny blue eyes, may be a bit simple (or may not be; I’ve never been sure but that she puts on an air of simplicity to disarm folk) but she keeps our servants’ noses firmly to the old grindstone. With her eye for detail and her talent for organisation, if she’d been born male, she’d have made an excellent sergeant in the Army. 

However, I soon had things to worry about other than the state of the castle’s upkeep. We were marched into the Great Hall, and there was Lady Lysa herself, standing beside a weirwood throne on which perched the weedy boy I’d seen earlier. Lady Catelyn was standing not far from her sister, and the two of them had looks of utter malicious satisfaction on their faces. I felt like a canary being confronted by two hungry cats.

“So,” said Lady Lysa. “The sky cells always break them. You may make your confession, Lord Tyrion.” I would have spoken up, pointed out that I was a British diplomat, demanded my immediate release on pain of the displeasure of Queen Victoria, but as I filled my lungs, the guard behind me jabbed me in the back with something sharp, and I held my peace. Inwardly, I was praying to whatever god watches over us atheists that Lord Tyrion would be able to talk us out of this jam.

“Oh, I am a vile little man,” Lord Tyrion began, with a wicked grin. He went on to detail a life spent in debauchery and licence, with wall-to-wall wine, whoring, wasting and woolgathering, evil wishes for his lord father’s death and that of his sister, the Queen (that last part was no surprise; we’d talked enough for me to know that Queen Cersei would have killed him years ago if she could have got away with it) and gambling. All in all, it sounded great fun, and I wished I could have been along for it. The part where young Tyrion hid a servant’s dress when she was in bathing, forcing her to return to the castle naked, her tits a-bob, particularly charmed me.

Finally Lady Lysa had heard enough. She slapped the arm of the weirwood throne hard enough to shut Lord Tyrion up. “Enough! What do you know about the attempt on my nephew’s life? What do you have to say about Brandon Stark?”

Lord Tyrion spread his hands, his face a mask of utter innocence. “Why, nothing, my lady. I had nothing to do with it, and I know nothing of it.” 

“Enough! To purge your insolence, I shall have you back in the sky cells. But a different one this time, with more of a slant to the floor!” The guards seized onto me, and I braced myself for a fight. I knew it was hopeless, but at that moment, I’d have rather died than go back to the sky cells, much less one with more of a slant to the floor than the one we’d been in. Several times, when we’d managed to sleep, I’d nearly rolled out. Even now, decades later, I dread sleep sometimes, for my dreams take me back to that cell in the sky. I hope the man who came up with it is burning in hell.

Lord Tyrion, bless him, knew what to do. “Is this justice?” he roared, in a voice surprisingly loud for such a small person. “I deny your charges, so you throw me and Ser Harry into a sky cell to freeze? Do the laws stop at the gates of the Eyrie? Are we still in the Seven Kingdoms here?”(5) I cheered him on mentally. Reminding those two madwomen of just whose brother-in-law he was couldn’t hurt. Did they think they could just dispose of King Robert’s own brother-in-law without repercussions? 

Lady Lysa smiled evilly. “If a trial is what you wish, Lord Tyrion, a trial you shall have,” she drawled. “And my son shall be the judge!” This was not good news at all. That sickly brat was utterly under his Mama’s thumb, and would do as she said. 

On his throne, Lord Robert bounced up and down with excitement. “Mama! May I make them fly?” I didn’t know just what he meant right then. 

“Of course, if you decide that they’re guilty,” Lady Lysa purred. She gestured, and one of the guards opened a door at one end of the hall. Outside, the mountains were visible. “We keep no headsman here at the Eyrie, Lord Tyrion, Ser Harry. Behold the king’s justice!” Suddenly I knew what that poisonous brat had meant by “make them fly.” 

I’m a bad man. I’ve done a lot of bad things, and, God willing, will survive to do more. However, allowing people to be thrown off a seven-hundred-foot-tall cliff to please an insane child is a good long ways beyond what even I think is good form. Lady Lysa, of course, was barking mad. 

Lord Tyrion smiled bitterly. “I would not put such a burden on my host. I call for trial by combat!” At this, everybody laughed, loud and long. The thought of Lord Tyrion, of all people, squaring off with one of the big, burly knights that were standing about was humourous, I had to admit. I’d have found it even funnier had my own neck not been in the noose along with his.

“You? You call for trial by combat?” At least this had thrown Lady Lysa aback a little. 

“Of course. I name my brother Ser Jaime Lannister as my champion.” Now I saw the little genius’ strategy. If they sent to Kings Landing for Ser Jaime, they would have to say where they were holding Lord Tyrion. Ser Jaime would come, hotfoot…and almost certainly would have a great deal of the Royal army with him, along with as many troops as the Lannisters could bring up from their lands in the West. While the Eyrie was immune to storming, once it was cut off from re-victualling, the rest was a matter of time. 

“No, that would take too much time. And you have a fine champion right beside you. We have heard much of the exploits of Ser Harry Flashman in his own lands. He will make a fine champion for you, and his prowess will determine both of your fates.” That was Lady Catelyn. She’d apparently swotted up enough about me to be taken in by my spurious reputation. “Ser Harry has led neck-or-nothing charges into the teeth of enemy armies, saved fortresses from certain capture, and evaded death time and again! What better champion could you have, Lord Tyrion?”

I could have strangled the bitch. Once again, my hair-raising, mostly-undeserved reputation had landed me straight into the sewage. I’d have been perfectly happy to let Ser Jaime do the fighting, but that wasn’t to be. I found myself being shoved forward, and someone handed me a sword. Lady Lysa looked around, her protuberant eyes reminding me uncomfortably of our own sovereign lady for a second. “Who will face Ser Harry for me and the Eyrie?”

I was quite disturbed at the number of volunteers that came forward. Of course, Lady Lysa was the mistress of the Vale of Arryn, and de facto ruler of one of the quondam “Seven Kingdoms,” so there’d be no lack of ambitious toadies trying to please her and possibly parlay that into marriage to her and a huge rise in their status.(6) If it hadn’t been my neck on the chopping-block, I’d have rather envied them the chance. Of course, bedding Lady Lysa and putting up with that brat of hers would take some of the fun out of it.

She picked one knight named Ser Vardis Egen, and he came forward. He was still in his armour, and I didn’t like that at all, not having any of my own. I turned to the singer Marillion, who’d been an interested witness to the proceedings, and called out: “When you make a song of this, singer, make sure not to forget the part about how the knight of the Eyrie was so afraid of the Englishman he faced that he refused to remove his armour, despite the Englishman having none!” 

In his shoes, assuming I’d been mad enough to offer myself willingly for a trial-by-combat, that taunt wouldn’t have moved me an inch out of my steel clothes, but Ser Vardis was, like many other Westerosi knights, an honour-mad fool. And I noticed that the audience that had gathered were murmuring. With a thrill, I realised that sympathies had swung to me, and Lord Tyrion. From being accused of attempted murder, we’d become underdogs, and a lot of people were hoping I’d win. Of course, I was one of that number myself. Dying on Ser Vardis’ sword or being thrown off a seven-hundred-foot cliff held no appeal.

At Lady Lysa’s shout of “Lay on, and Seven defend the right!” Ser Vardis and I were suddenly locked in combat. I concentrated on keeping him at a distance for a while; I hadn’t spent all those years in practice with some of the most experienced swordmasters in the Army, not to mention sparring with Dick Burton, for nothing. While I would far rather run, I’m a fine swordsman. And I noticed, with delight, that Ser Vardis was not only not in my league, but was much too used to fighting only in armour. And all the swordwork he knew was with the edge, while I knew that swords have points for a reason.

Ser Vardis cursed me, sweat pouring down his face, as I parried his slashes. An imp of mischief possessed me, and I decided to show off. Easily parrying his latest cut at me, I pinked him in his right shoulder, producing a howl of pain that was balm to my soul, as well as slowing him. With his hand slick with blood he couldn’t hold his sword as easily. He roared with rage, and lifted his sword…and I ran him very neatly through the centre of his chest. With his sword out of the way, he couldn’t have parried my thrust at all, even un-wounded.

Ser Vardis’ eyes went wide, and his mouth opened, releasing a torrent of blood, as the shouting and betting was suddenly silenced. His sword arm relaxed, letting his sword clatter to the floor of the Eyrie, as his life left him. The last intelligence I saw in his eyes was directed at me, and I could see that he was utterly dumfounded at having been defeated so easily by someone like me. Serves the bloody brute right, for underestimating Flashy. 

I shoved him forward, off my blade and out of the door, to fly. Just as that horrible brat had said. I then bowed to Lady Lysa. “May Lord Tyrion and I have our gear back, and an escort to the gates, please?”

[1] This statement is found in Royal Flash.

[2] Again, this is a reference to Royal Flash. Flashman had thrown an enemy of his, a man named de Gautet, off a mountain.

[3] See Flashman On The March.

[4] Gandamack Lodge was the Flashmans’ home in Leicestershire, near Rutland. It was named after the dreadful battle Flashman had been in in the First Afghan War. For details, see Flashman.

[5] The laws of the Seven Kingdoms did give nobles a good deal of legal protection. Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa were on very shaky ground here. Even if Lord Tyrion had not been the King’s own brother-in-law, reports of their high-handed treatment of him would have had dreadful repercussions.

[6] Flashman is quite correct. Lady Lysa was one of the most eligible widows in the Seven Kingdoms at this time, and many noblemen would have happily overlooked her shortcomings to gain control of the Vale and its associated lands.


	8. Chapter 8

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 08

by Technomad

 

Some little while later, Tyrion and I were walking down the path from the Eyrie. If I never saw the place again, it’d be years too soon for me. Even knowing that I was traveling through dangerous country didn’t bother me for once. Right then, anywhere at all was better than the sky cells.

We’d been escorted down, through the layers of defenses, and finally turfed out of the Bloody Gate, the outermost walls defending that damned castle, by Ser Lyn. As we’d been herded down and out, I had taken careful note of the fortifications. If I ever came back to the Vale of Arryn, I planned to have my friends with me. Specifically, my friends in the Royal Artillery, and the Sappers. Reducing those works would be an interesting exercise for them, and taking the Vale would be a wonderful way to pay Lysa Arryn out for what she’d put me through.

I wondered just how Dick Burton, and our gracious Queen, would react to the news that I, an accredited envoy of Britain, had been grabbed and falsely imprisoned. Wars had been started over much smaller affronts. And as long as I wasn’t expected to be out doing desperate deeds, that suited me right to the ground. 

Tyrion waddled along beside me, keeping up well despite his short legs. He’d somehow or other managed to attract the services of a “sell-sword,” a man named Bronn, despite keeping his promise to the letter and giving that swine Mord all the gold he’d had on him when we’d been captured. The silver and copper, he had kept, not being a complete naif. When we got to civilisation, being able to buy things would be very valuable; I’m no great hand at petty theft and the laws of Westeros are harsh on such folk.

Mord, the poor fool, had goggled and gaped like a gaffed fish when Tyrion had emptied his purse into his outstretched hands. “And I have more!” Tyrion had assured him. “If you ever get tired of life here, Mord, do come to Casterly Rock, and I’ll see you rewarded just as you deserve!” The great gowk had nodded eagerly, clearly planning to do just that. Tyrion had given me a wink that told me a great deal.

We were out of earshot of any Arryn or Tully soldiers, so it was safe to satisfy my curiosity. “I take it, m’lord, that the ‘reward’ awaiting our dear friend in Casterly Rock isn’t quite what he thinks it is?”

Tyrion grinned wickedly at me. “We’ve some ouiblettes that are barely big enough for a person to fit into; they’ve been described as being tighter than a suit of clothes. One of those would suit our dear friend perfectly, don’t you think?” I had to agree. The thought of Mord, trapped without even room to turn around, screaming his lungs out in the impenetrable dark, was very gratifying.

Bronn spoke up. “It’s getting on toward evening, m’lord, Ser Harry,” he said. “I wish we could get out of these hills. The mountain tribesmen are almost certainly on our track.” Looking about me, I had to agree. The whole place was much too much like Afghanistan for my taste, and my previous acquaintance with the mountain clans had not whetted my appetite for more of the same. We urged our horses on a little faster. Tyrion had insisted that the stablemaster at the Bloody Gate provide us with the best he had in his stables, instead of fobbing us off with whatever swaybacked nags he most wanted to be shed of. I’m rather a judge of horseflesh, and what we’d been given wasn’t bad at all. With any luck, they’d hold up until we got to Kings Landing, or Lord Tyrion’s father, whichever we ran across first.

That was for the future, though. At the present, our main problem was getting out of those bloody mountains. The trail was steep and treacherous, and more than once, we had to stop and lead our horses; the poor beasts didn’t like the footing, not one bit they didn’t. Neither did I, but seeing how calmly Tyrion and Bronn dealt with it kept me from whining, at least out loud. I had to keep up a stiff upper lip in front of the Westerosi, however much I wanted to just sit down and howl for a while. 

When we had to stop for the night, Tyrion built a fire, despite Bronn and me both pointing out that that would attract every howling barbarian for a hundred miles. Pausing for a second, Tyrion grinned up at us. His expression was pure wickedness. “Oh, I know they’re tracking us. I want to get them to come out.”

A voice came from the bush: “You have got your wish, little half-man.” I nearly jumped out of my skin as the shadows around us coalesced into more hairy barbarians than I’d seen since the last time I came out of the Khyber Pass. At least they weren’t attacking us just then, but my mind wanted to jump out of my skull and run around in circles yammering in fear. 

Left to my own devices, I’m a peaceable chap, bullying underlings and whipping trollops aside, and would never voluntarily stir from safe, comfortable London. However, I am never left to my own devices for very long, thanks to my reputation for heroics and my sheer bad luck. Over the years, I’ve confronted every kind of hideous native warrior that my world holds: Sioux and Apache , Dyaks, Malagasys, Zulus, Dahomeyan Amazons…all of them hold a special place in my hierarchy of horribles. But pride of place will always go to the Afghan Pathans. 

This lot weren’t quite as fearsome as Pathans; for one thing, they hadn’t a single firearm. That, alone, made a huge difference; the Pathans are deadly shots with their jezzails. (1) As I looked them over, I noticed that they were as badly equipped as any warriors I’d ever seen. Some of them had nothing but fire-hardened wooden spears, and almost none of them had any armour. 

Bronn grabbed for his sword hilt, but then sat back, visibly forcing himself to relax. The mountain men had us, fair and square. Just as Lysa Tully and Catelyn Stark had figured they would, damn them both. I hid my dissolving courage behind a calm front, remembering that when dealing with such folk, a show of fear is fatal. 

Tyrion was on his feet, gesturing hospitably. “Come! Sit by our fire! Share our food!” At this, the mountain clansmen laughed harshly and unkindly. Their leader, a man-mountain covered with more hair than I had ever seen on a person, laughed loudest of all and hefted what looked to be a woodsman’s axe. 

“Your food is ours, little man. Your weapons are ours, your horses are ours. You offer us nothing but what is ours.” At this, I wished fervently for my Baby Dragoon, which I had last seen at the inn where I’d been taken. At that moment, the feel of a revolver would have been very comforting, however little good it might have done in the final scrap. “Shagga son of Dolf will cut off your manhood and feed it to the goats!”

That did not sound good. However, Shagga, who turned out to be the hairy mountain, made a gesture as though he were shaving with the edge of his axe, and I relaxed microscopically. While I did not fancy being shaven, with an axe or with a razor, it beat being de-bollocksed by a million miles. 

Inside, I was all but melting from fear, hidden as usual behind my fierce outer visage. For some reason, I go red rather than white when frightened, and folk think I’m angry, not afraid. This has saved my life more than once. 

Meanwhile, Tyrion was talking. He’d talked us out of the jam at the Eyrie, so I forced myself to subside and let him do what he seemed to do best. Not that Flashy’s bad at spinning a tale…the time I convinced Jefferson Davis that I was at the Southern “White House” to fix the lightning rods was a particular triumph (2)…but Tyrion was clearly a past-master at this art. Of course, being a dwarf, he had no other choice but to learn to charm and cozen folk with his words. 

“To be sure, it is!” To hear Tyrion, you’d think he was standing in the court at Kings Landing. “And what will you take to let us go our way?”

“Your lives, little half-man,” Shagga answered. At this, I slowly reached for the hilt of the sword they’d given me at the Eyrie, the same one with which I’d killed Ser Vardis. It balanced and handled almost like the cavalry sabres I’d first become acquainted with when I bought my commission in the 11th Light Dragoons(3), so long ago. At least when it came to the final scrap I’d have a weapon I could use. I’d have been tempted to run off into the darkness and leave Tyrion and Bronn to their fates, but I knew this sort of savages. They no doubt knew every inch of those hillsides better than they did their wives’ backsides, and they’d have taken great pleasure in filleting me for my cowardice.

Tyrion was looking them over as though they were something he was being asked to buy at the market. “Are those the best weapons you can get?” he asked, in a tone of wonder. “My father’s smiths shit better steel than that!” 

All the mountain men growled. “And who is your father? Come to it, who are you, little half-man?” rumbled Shagga. 

“I am Tyrion son of Tywin, of the clan Lannister. This…” pointing to me… “is Ser Harry, of the Flashman clan. And this is Bronn, a sellsword. How much would you like to have fine swords, good armour and good horses?” 

“I will cut off your manhood and…” Shagga’s rant was halted by a gesture from another clansman.

“No. I would hear him out. The mothers are hungry, the children die, and the knights of the Vale hunt us for sport.” His voice was bitter, and I could see that he’d made a good point. Most of the clansmen seemed to agree; even Shagga son of Dolf, although he made a point of grumbling and muttering for a bit before settling down. 

Tyrion was watching them keenly. “The lords of the Vale drove you into these mountains,” he pointed out. “The lords of the Vale take the food out of your children’s mouths. The lords of the Vale hunt you for sport, as though you were animals. The lords of the Vale threw me and Ser Harry, here, into a sky cell and wanted to throw us off a cliff when we’d done nothing to merit it.” He paused, sensing that he had his audience eating out of the palm of his hand. “I think it’s time for some new lords of the Vale, don’t you?”

As he had known it would, that met with general approval. Seizing the moment, Tyrion went on: “My father is rich, and we can equip you to fight against the lords of the Vale on equal terms, instead of having to make do with whatever poor castoffs you can find! No more fire-hardened spears! Real steel weapons and armor! Good horses!”

This made me think uncomfortably for a second or two of the consequences of offering modern weapons to the Pathans, or running guns to the Apache. Even though Lady Lysa deserved the consequences if anyone did, if I were any judge, it’d be the smallfolk in the Vale who paid with their blood and suffering. Lady Lysa would be safe enough, up in that damned Eyrie. 

Much I cared, I decided. If Lady Lysa was not available personally, then her smallfolk would just have to take the suffering in her place, and be damned to ‘em. Serve them right for having the wrong lords! As long as I was well out of it, others’ suffering usually did not matter a fig to me.

Tyrion clearly didn’t care, either. Of course, he was a Westerosi nobleman. From my rather limited acquaintance, most of that lot cared less about the smallfolk than we in Britain do about the masses in the slums. It was really quite like India; Rani Lakshmibhai and Queen Jeendan would have felt right at home. 

Now that a meeting of minds had been established, the evening turned rather jolly. I’d had some drink in my saddlebags, abstracted from the Eyrie, and soon a bottle was passing around the fire. While Westerosi strongwine was nothing like as strong as good brandy or whiskey, it was very good for taking the edge off things, and soon we were all rather merry, the mountain clansmen more so, since they were much less used to strong drink than Tyrion, Bronn or I.

After a while, we got onto the subject of sport. The mountain men affected to believe that nobody could ride as well as they could. Normally, I’d have kept silence, but the strongwine had affected me more powerfully than I realised, and before I knew it, I was roped into a contest between myself and one of the mountain men, to be held the next morning. 

Much earlier than I’d have preferred, I was routed out of my blankets the next day, to be faced by some obnoxiously-cheerful mountaineers, all eager to see the Englishman humiliated. Bronn and Tyrion were also watching. Bronn looked as though he was trying to figure out how to place a bet, while Tyrion looked confident that I could handle whatever the mountain men were about to throw at me.

Two horses were led forth; the one I’d been given to replace the one I’d lost at the inn, and a skittish-looking grey mare. I mounted mine, and one of the mountain men, a chap called Conn son of Coratt, mounted the grey. With a yell, he galloped off, and I followed afterward, breathing deeply to clear the fumes of last night’s entertainment from my head.

The game was simple; he who did the most outrageous thing won. Conn son of Coratt had a light spear, and I’d been given a heavier one, apparently a trophy from some unfortunate Vale soldier. While it wasn’t quite a lance, any more than the sword on my hip was a proper British sabre, it would do for what I had in mind. 

Conn, damn him, was a fine horseman. Not quite up to the standards of the Plains Indians, who are about the finest I know, but well able to handle himself on horseback. He started pulling shines like standing up in the saddle, forcing me to imitate him, and then to do some stunts of my own, like the trick I learned from the Sioux (4) of slipping down and holding on to the side of the horse at full gallop. They do that to conceal themselves and make it harder for enemies to shoot them. Up on the hill, the mountain clansmen, Tyrion and Bronn cheered us on.

Then something unexpected happened. A family of rabbits burst from cover and ran across the path, startling both our horses and forcing us back up into the saddle. And not a second too soon; the next thing I knew, a bloody great boar had emerged, snarling and snorting its rage. He saw us, lowered his head and charged with a squeal of fury. 

Conn was in the lead, and before he could do anything, the boar had knocked his horse down, sending him flying through the air to land with a sickening crunch in some bramble bushes. Boars are unpredictable creatures; this one, having just savaged his horse with his vicious tusks, this one left Conn alone and turned toward me, pawing the ground with his trotters before breaking into another charge. 

Had I had more time to think about what to do, I’d have turned tail and fled, leaving Conn to the boar’s tender mercies. Conn was nothing to me, after all, and I didn’t have even a proper boar-spear; nobody’d have blamed me.(5) However, I’d been pig-sticking many times in India, and reacted on pure instinct. Clapping spurs to my horse’s sides, I charged the boar, lowering my lance to take the brute right where they’re vulnerable. 

The impact nearly knocked me from my saddle; if I hadn’t braced myself the way I’d learnt in India, I’d have been thrown straight back and off, over the horse’s crupper, to be as much at that boar’s nonexistent mercy as Conn. Instead, I rammed the lance head right on through, skewering that vicious pig from stem to stern in a way that even my most censorious old comrades from the old days in the Raj would have had to approve. Many of those men cared more about proper form killing animals than about leading their men properly…and for too many of them, that had come back to haunt them, when the Mutiny erupted and the same sepoys they had blindly seen as loyal soldiers of the Raj revolted and killed them and their families. 

The lance was torn from my hand; the boar weighed several hundred pounds if he was an ounce, and too much of it was muscle and sinew. The shock of impalement had disoriented him, though; he was whirling around, squealing and grunting, trying to get his tusks into whatever was hurting him so. I saw an opportunity, spurred my horse, rode up beside him, and stuck him with my sword, straight in the jugular. He let out an agonized squeal, took a few tottering steps, and finally fell over, kicking and thrashing and dying. 

I looked up the hill. Everybody was watching me, silently. Then, as I jammed my sword straight through the brute’s eye socket into his brain to make sure he was very dead, they erupted in cheers and yells. “Dinner tonight is on Ser Harry!” came a yell from Bronn. Count on a sellsword to think of that.

Conn was shaken, but unhurt, and exceeding grateful. “Ser Harry! You saved my life!” he stammered. “I…I don’t know how to thank you!”

Now that the boar was good and dead, I finally felt safe dismounting. I looked down, all false modesty, and buffed my nails on my shirt front. “All in a normal day’s work for an Englishman, old chap,” I drawled, as lordly as the Earl of Cardigan himself could have. From the way they all goggled at me, I knew that this feat would not be forgotten soon by anybody who’d seen it, and the credit from it would only do me good. No need to explain to anyone that I’d reacted on pure instinct and reflex, instead of bravery and courage.

[1] The jezzail was a musket used by the tribesmen of Afghanistan and the Northwest Frontier. Often featuring European-made barrels and flintlocks, they were very deadly in the proper hands, and the Afghan and Pathan tribesmen were quite skilled in their use. 

[2] The incident where Flashman convinced Jefferson Davis that he was there to fix the lightning rods on the Southern “White House” was during the US Civil War; this particular packet of the Flashman Papers has not yet come to light. During that war, Flashman was a major in the army of the United States and a colonel in the army of the Confederacy. 

[3] Flashman started his military career in 1839 by purchasing a commission in the 11th Light Dragoons, a light-cavalry regiment just back from India. After marrying a woman his commander, the notorious Earl of Cardigan, thought insufficiently socially prominent, he was forced to go to India, where he began to acquire his reputation for heroism. Flashman never forgave Cardigan for the affront, and in several other sections of the Flashman Papers, goes out of his way to portray the noble Earl as a stupid martinet. This was how the Earl was seen at the time, so Flashman did not need to reach far for the characterisation.

[4] Flashman had spent time in the American West, and had been, for a while, an adopted member of the Mimbreno Apaches and an acquaintance of such luminaries as Kit Carson, Spotted Tail, and the young Geronimo. 

[5] Wild boars are notoriously tough and tenacious of life, and a properly-made boar spear has crossbars below the head, to keep the boar from running right on up the spear and avenging his death on his killer. Flashman was very lucky this time.


	9. Chapter 9

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 09

by Technomad

 

A few days later, we came riding over a ridge and saw an army encamped below us. Tyrion smiled. “The banners are red, with a gold lion rampant! That means my brother or father’s here!” We had known of its existence for some time, since Chella daughter of Cheyk had reported it. The Black Ears she-chief had said that there were as many as 20,000 men. However, she did not know Westerosi heraldry, and the banners meant nothing to her.

That was excellent news. Lord Tywin Lannister was high in the government, and would almost certainly expedite my return to Kings Landing without delay. That would mean an end to sleeping on the ground, an end to cold boiled mutton for every meal, and, most importantly, an end to being surrounded by hairy barbarians that made the Pathans of my former acquaintance seem proper gentlemen.

Oh, they hadn’t offered me any harm. My saving Conn from the boar we’d inadvertently happened upon had cemented my reputation as a desperate fellow and a fine companion, but just the same, their roaring friendliness wore on my nerves. At least we didn’t have any more strongwine with us! They reminded me of the Red Indians I had seen in the West when they were in their cups.(1)

The wild men growled uneasily; they weren’t used to being so close to lowland soldiers. Ulf son of Umar said: “Why should we let you go down there without us, little halfman? Lowland lords have lied to the clans before!"” I had to admit, I could see his point. If I could have won free of the clansmen, I'd’ve done so in a heartbeat. I wanted civilised company, or at least people who didn’t remind me so of the many terrifying savages who’ve tried to end me over the years. 

Conn son of Coratt spoke up. “Where Ser Harry goes, there go I! Conn son of Coratt owes Ser Harry his life!” Since I’d inadvertently saved him by skewering that awful pig, Conn had adopted me, all but treating me as his brother. I’d been here before, with Ilderim Khan, my Pathan blood brother, so this was Old Home Week for me. Conn wasn’t as good company as Ilderim had been, but poor Ilderim was gone, and I had to make do with what was in front of me, like Rugby on one of the frequent fast days that Arnold would proclaim to help us mortify our flesh.(2)

“You wound me, Ulf,” said Tyrion, with his crooked smile. “And here I thought we had become such friends. But very well. You may ride on in with me. And Shagga and Conn, for the Stone Crows. Timett son of Timett, for the Burned Men.” The clansmen gave each other suspicious looks. “The rest of you, wait here. Try not to slaughter each other while I am gone.” Wish for the moon, while you’re at it, why don’t you? I thought, but a lifetime’s practice kept my thoughts from my face. 

As we rode down toward the Lannister encampment, I unobtrusively positioned my mount so as to be as distant as possible from Shagga, whose smell was as strong as everything else about him. Timett son of Timett gave me the shuddering creeps. His particular tribe, the Burned Men, required boys to burn off a body part…a finger, usually, or something like that…to become a full adult and member of the tribe. That madman had burned out one eye; they’d taken one look at that and made him a war chief when he was barely old enough to shave. The Burned Men scared even the other mountain clansmen, and Timett son of Timett scared everybody. I think even the toughest Afghans and Pathans I’d known in my time in India would have walked wide of him.

Beside me, Bronn gave me a wink. I had had a few chances to speak with him privately, and we found that we shared some opinions. Neither of us was too impressed with what we’d seen of the great lords of this land, and both of us thought that the laws and customs of Westeros could do with some revision. Normally, I could not give a fig for oppressive laws, but my recent experiences at the hands of Catelyn Stark and Lysa Arryn had changed my attitude. Cutting these nobles’ combs and introducing some good old British law sounded an excellent idea. 

As we rode up, the guards on the outposts stood-to; they were well-trained and looked to be well-equipped and –armed. But I’d have expected nothing less from Lord Tywin Lannister. He was rolling in the readies. There were jokes about him actually shitting gold, although I had heard that wise folk did not even think about such jokes in his presence. He was also famously vengeful; a song that had made it even as far as Britain, “The Rains of Castermere,” celebrated his revenge on a noble family that had tried to break their allegiance to his House.(2)

Some armored men rode out to challenge us before we could go much further. Their leader lifted his visor, wonder on his face. “Lord Tyrion!” he said. “Your pardon, my lord, but we all thought you were…” He trailed off, clearly unsure what to make of me, much less the mountain clansmen. 

“Dead?” Tyrion gave a bitter smile. “Terribly sorry to disappoint you, but it takes more than that to kill a Lannister. Where is my lord father?”

“He is at the inn at the crossroads, m’lord. But, m’lord…who are these people?” 

Tyrion waved a hand. “Well…for starters, this is Ser Harry Flashman, the envoy from the British. He was taken prisoner along with me, and is a stalwart warrior without peer. And this is Bronn, a sellsword I’ve taken into my employ. The others are leaders of the mountain clans from the Mountains of the Moon. If you’ll pardon me, Ser Flement, I do need to see my lord father, as soon as may be. Will you detail an escort?” 

“Of course, my lord!” Soon we were cantering along the road toward the inn. I noticed a good few carrion-birds about, but no corpses, thank God. I suspected there had been some fighting, but whoever had won had apparently cleaned up the battlefield. I was glad of that. I’ve been on enough stricken battlefields and never smelling another one in my entire life would suit me right to the ground.

Sure enough, the Lannisters’ family banner was flying over the same inn where we’d been taken prisoner. Outside, a gibbet held the corpse of the innkeeper, along with some hungry crows and ravens. As I rode by, I looked up at it, reminding myself that nobles in this place had the right of high and low justice over anybody not noble. God knows, I’d been in enough places where that was the rule to feel right at home. Still and all, I thought the Lannisters’ reaction a trifle excessive. Yes, we’d been taken at the inn. What did they expect the innkeep to do? Call out her troops to protect us? Hide us securely in her fortress-home? I sighed, thinking of the lovely beer she had brewed, and followed Tyrion on in.

After some going-‘round with the stableboys (those mountain madmen were suspicious of their intentions as regarded their horses, and it took some diplomacy from Tyrion to quiet them down) Tyrion and I walked on in to the main room of the inn, and found ourselves confronted by Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lannisport and the Westlands. He was seated by another nobleman whom I couldn’t place, but who bore Lord Tywin a clear family resemblance. The way they, and particularly Lord Tywin, looked at us made me wonder if my fly was undone. I did look a right fright, but what would anybody expect? Those madwomen had not been kind enough to let me pack my traps, and I’d been wearing the same clothes for nearly two weeks, including a stint in those never-to-be-sufficiently-accursed sky cells! Did they think we would look like the latest fashion plates out of London or Kings Landing?

Lord Tywin looked like an unpleasant cross between the Duke of Wellington and Dr. Arnold, a combination not to my taste.(3) Even sitting down, he was tall, with a head shaven bald but for golden side-whiskers. He was wearing golden plate armor, with his House sigil of a lion worked into it in various ways. He finally raised an eyebrow. 

The man beside him stood up. “Lord Tyrion! We thought you were lost!” 

“Terribly sorry to disappoint you, Father, Uncle Kevan. May I present Ser Harry Flashman? He is the English envoy who was taken along with me, and he’s been a leal companion to me. I owe him my life.” Well, if Tyrion had forgotten that they were planning to throw me out the Moon Door as well, who was I to gainsay the son of such a great lord? “He fought doughtily in my defense. If all Englishmen are like him, we would do well to gain their alliance.” If all Englishmen were like me, we’d barely have got as far as the Isle of Wight, but, again, who was I to gainsay him? Once again, luck and happenstance had served me in place of the courage I lack. “Ser Harry, may I present my father, Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, etcetara, and my uncle Ser Kevan Lannister.”

Lord Tywin gave me what he probably thought was an approving look. It looked as out of place on his face as a Turk at a christening, but I bowed politely to him and his companion nonetheless. “Sir Harry Flashman, of the British embassy at Kings Landing, very much at your services, my lords. Please, could I beg the use of a horse and an escort back to Kings Landing? My ambassador will want to know that I’m still alive.”

“An excellent point. Ser Richard has been raising the roof, asking our government what became of you. Misplacing an envoy is not a good thing to do.” Oh, if he only knew! Wars had been started over smaller affronts than had been offered to Britain by my kidnapping! “In the meantime, we are marching on the North.”

What was this? A great deal had been going on behind my oblivious back, if I was any judge. “How is that, my lord? Doesn’t the King’s Hand hold the North for the King?”

“No more. Robert is dead, and now my grandson Joffrey sits the Iron Throne. Eddard Stark is accused of treason, and now holds nothing but a dungeon cell in the Red Keep.” This did not sound good, not at all. Robert, for all his drunkenness and folly, was a person who could be dealt with. A boy barely old enough to shave, sitting a throne, was a recipe for disaster, if my experience and readings of history were any indication. And that was without the sinister rumours we had gathered about Joffrey’s character. “The Young Wolf, Lord Stark’s eldest son, has called his banners and is on the march.”

This did not sound good, not at all. Civil wars are deadly dangerous…no one knows that better than I do. I spent several years navigating my terrified way through both sides of the Yankees’ stupid, murderous civil war, and had had more than enough of such things to last me all my days. 

I wondered how Robert Baratheon had died, and why. When I had seen him last, he was fat, to be sure, but he looked strong and healthy. He could still have drunk a Scotch sergeants’ mess straight under the table without breathing hard, and I knew that he spent every hour he could out in pursuit of game, a-horseback. Could someone had slipped something into his drink? Or had it been an honest accident? I needed to get back to Kings Landing, to know.

Tyrion said: “That sounds all very interesting, Father, but I have some needs of my own. I’ll be needing two thousand coats of mail, two thousand swords…” Just then the door crashed open and the Lannister soldier who’d been on guard outside came flying in to crash against the wall. Shagga had got impatient and come in to find out what was going on. Behind him came Conn, Chella, and the rest of our mountain chiefs.

“Little man,” snarled Shagga, “the next time you bare steel on Shagga son of Dolf, I will cut off your manhood and roast it in the fire!” I had to respect that guard; I’d not have defied that man-mountain for a pension and a title, myself, but he’d done so because his lord had ordered him to. 

For all his forbidding aspect, Lord Tywin had style, damn him. He did not seem to be at all taken aback by this sudden apparition. “Tyrion, have you forgotten your courtesies? Please introduce me to your new friends!”

Tyrion was irrepressible. “They followed me home, Father! Can I keep them? They don’t eat much!” He went down the line. “This is Conn, son of Coratt. And the one who looks like Casterly Rock with hair is Shagga, son of Dolf. They are Stone Crows. The one with one eye missing is Timett son of Timett, of the Burned Men. And this fair lady is Chella daughter of Cheyk, of the Black Ears.” Chella gave Lord Tywin a smile that would have frightened the Devil. “They are the heads of clans from the Mountains of the Moon, and they have a small bone to pick with the Arryns.”

“As do we. We could use their services in the upcoming battle,” Lord Tywin said. This did not sit well with them; the clansmen muttered among themselves. Lord Tywin raised one blond brow. “Of course, the position we intended to assign them to is a position of great danger, where only the bravest warriors would be able to withstand the enemy attacks. If they don’t wish to do that, we can find something else for them to do.”

“The Stone Crows never ran from battle in all their lives!” snarled Conn. “The Stone Crows will lead your attack, and show you soft lowlanders how these things are done!” Beside him, Shagga nodded, for once, thank God, not talking about cutting off manhoods. 

“And where the Stone Crows go, the Black Ears have been before them!” snapped Chella. “Bring on your enemies, and we will show you what we can do!” 

“Nobody at all surpasses the Burned Men in valor!” growled Timett. I looked at Lord Tywin, and for a second, he had an expression on his face like a cat that had got the canary. “Your son, the halfman, will lead us! He has bought his breath with promises, and until we hold the steel he said he would give, his life is ours!” 

Lord Tywin looked at Tyrion, who gave him a rueful shrug. “Oh, joy,” said Tyrion. “I guess I finally get to horn in on my big brother’s glory!” He sounded about as enthusiastic as I would have felt, in his shoes. I wondered if his father was doing this as a way to get rid of a son who embarassed him but whom he couldn’t disown or just kill.

Then Lord Tywin turned those cold eyes on me. “And what of you, Ser Harry? What role would you play in the upcoming battle?”

Just the sort of question I hate! Luckily, however, this time I had an unimpeachable excuse, and it was even true! “None whatsoever, m’lord,” I said. “Under ordinary circumstances, I’d beg the privilege of leading your charge…I’m rather known for that at home; if you get the chance, ask any Englishman about Balaklava…but I’m a diplomat this time, not the soldier I’ve always been.”(4) I gave a very realistic sigh. “If I get involved in your civil war, it’ll be seen as Britain taking sides, and my ambassador and queen will both skin me alive!” 

“True, that. A pity,” said Lord Tywin. “As it happens, I have heard of some of your exploits back in your home world, Ser Harry. Maybe sometime if the political situation changes, we can look for you on the field. I’m sure you’ll do your Queen and country great honour.” Only if I couldn’t find some way out of it, I thought. 

A messenger came in and handed Lord Tywin a message, which he took and unsealed as the messenger bowed himself out with a nervous look at the mountain clansmen. “So,” murmured Lord Tywin, “the young wolf comes out to play with the lion, does he?” He turned to Ser Kevan. “Prepare to march! Jaime has already covered himself in glory, and we shall exceed it!”

With that, I found myself dismissed. I was quickly assigned a squadron of Lannister riders to get me safe back to Kings Landing, as I should have been two weeks previous. It’s always a nice thing, watching soldiers preparing to go to battle, when you aren’t expected (or allowed, ha-ha!) to go with ‘em. 

I noticed that nobody seemed to be carrying muskets; all the weapons I saw were the old familiar medieval standbys: swords, maces, lances, bows, warhammers, polearms and the like. That told me that this quarrel, at least ostensibly, was between Lannister and Stark, not a full-scale war of the Crown against a rebel. 

Soon, I was back on the road, eating up the miles to Kings Landing, my lovely featherbrained Elspeth, and the nice, quiet, safe embassy, where nothing awaited me but a pile of paperwork. Like a fool, I thought I was well out of trouble. Had I only realised what awaited me, I’d have gone galloping straight back to Lord Tywin and begged him to let me lead his vanguard. 

[1] Flashman had extensive experience of the American West, and Native Americans had a bad reputation for being dangerous when in liquor.

[2] At the beginning of Lord Tywin’s time as head of House Lannister, the House’s fortunes were in a parlous state due to his father’s lax rule. Tywin was the new broom that swept very clean, and he nailed down a reputation as a person not to be trifled with when he extirpated the Reyne family of Castamere for insubordinate behavior unbefitting vassals of Casterly Rock. 

[3] Flashman met the Duke of Wellington right after returning from the First Afghan War. His time at Rugby school had been under the famous, or notorious, Dr. Thomas Arnold, and the experience had left a notable mark on him. Arnold had expelled him for drunkenness, having long awaited the opportunity to rid the school of Flashman’s presence. See Flashman.

[4] Despite being on very bad terms with the commander of the Light Brigade, Lord Cardigan (see Flashman for the details) Flashman had ended up charging with the Light Brigade, as well as charging earlier with the Heavy Brigade and then standing with the Thin Red Line at the Battle of Balaklava in the Crimean War.


	10. Chapter 10

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 10

by Technomad

 

When we got to Kings Landing, the city was locked down, tightly. My status as a British envoy and the credentials of my escort got us past the gate guards, but they weren’t letting anybody at all out. This had not gone over well; as we rode through, there were large, angry crowds of people who hadn’t planned on a stay in the capital, all yelling and complaining. They gave us sour looks as we rode by, but the sight of my escort’s armour and weapons kept them from anything worse. I scowled right back at ‘em; ‘twasn’t my fault that the authorities had decided to keep them in! If they thought they had it rough, I knew some sky cells at the Eyrie that they could have for a while. That’d show’em!

We reined in at the Embassy to find it in a fine tizzy. Word had gone ahead by carrier-raven that I’d been located, so they weren’t surprised to see me, but seeing me pulling up, disheveled, badly in need of a shave and a bath, and with my clothes in ruins, set people scurrying. Dick Burton came down the front stairs to meet me at the main gate. 

“Flash! I knew they couldn’t kill you! You’re indestructible!” We clasped hands. I was very glad to see him again; with Ruffian Dick Burton about and on my side, I knew I was safe, and for the first time since being captured by that damnable b*tch Catelyn Stark I could relax inside. Inside our Embassy, with the Royal Marines on duty and HMS Penelope just offshore, I was as safe as anybody could be on that moth-eaten continent. Of course, if our gracious sovereign lady hadn’t happened to think of me at an inopportune moment, or I’d been conveniently not to be found, I’d never have been within thousands of miles of the accursed place.

Choking off that dangerous thought, I composed my face in a broad smile as I dismounted. “What? You thought that I was in trouble? It takes more than a spot of bother to worry me!” A bigger lie I have seldom or never told, but it went over a right treat. The British who’d come running out to see me let out a loud “Huzzah!” and some ass or other started up “See, the conquering hero comes…”

Right then, I found myself swarmed by a blonde. Elspeth had come hot-foot the second she had heard I was back, and as soon as my feet were both on the ground, she was all over me, hugging me hard enough to make my ribs creak and sobbing into my shoulder. Heedless of the fact that people were watching…we were married, damn it, and to hell with anybody who didn’t like it! I picked her up and swung her around, to a chorus of cheers. Why had I ever thought that Gatehouse Amerei had anything to offer, with this awaiting me in Kings Landing?

“Harry!” she sobbed. “Oh, Harry, we heard about what had happened to you! Those awful women…how could they do such a thing to you? When I catch up to them…” Looking into her eyes, I felt a moment’s fear. I remembered Sonsee-Array, my third wife (1) and her ways of tickling up a helpless prisoner, as well as Yehonala in Peking (2)…neither of those ladies was exactly a slouch at getting even with a man who’d crossed her. And for all her pink-and-white loveliness and her guileless blue eyes, my sweet Elspeth was their sister under the skin. 

I knew what to do. I held her close, murmuring soothingly: “There, there, m’dear…it’s all well. I’m here. Couldn’t stay away from my Elspeth, could I now?” As I’d known it would, that got a tremulous smile from her. I took my handkerchief and gently blotted tears from her face. “Come now, m’dear. Mustn’t let that radiant complexion be marred with tear-tracks. How’re you to outshine all the women in Kings Landing with tears on your face?”

As I’d known it would, that distracted her. Elspeth, bless her, is one of the vainest creatures I’ve ever run across…mind you, with a face like an angel and a figure that would tempt the Grand Inquisitor to convert to Protestantism, she’s got a deal to be vain of. And she knew it, the little minx. Most of the British women at the Embassy were raddled old mem-sahibs, their skins leathery and permanently tanned from too many years in tropic climes. The only rival to my Elspeth was Lady Isabel Burton, and in my unbiassed opinion, even without her tiresome piety, Isabel wasn’t within miles of Elspeth.

And with “her Hector” back home, she wouldn’t have any chance, or inclination (I hoped) to sample the charms of the other men. I’d seen how some of the other Embassy personnel looked at her, not to mention the knights about court. In a place with that many randy rips about, I prefer to keep a wary eye on Elspeth. Keeps temptation to a minimum, since (truth be told) I’ve good reason to believe that she’s no better than I. Oh, I’ve never caught her in flagrante delicto, but there have been occasions, like that time before I left for the Crimea (3) where it was a fairly close-run thing. 

I turned to Dick Burton, who was watching our reunion with a smile, and his Isabel clinging to his arm. “Dick, I hate to be a bother, but could a bath, change of clothes and shave be arranged? I’m in no fit state to be seen, as I am.” The clothes I was wearing were the same ones I’d had on at the Inn at the Crossroads, when I’d been captured, and they would have been rejected by the most abject beggar in London.

Reminded, Elspeth turned to snap orders at the servants. I was taken in hand very efficiently, and soon I was soaking in hot water up to my neck, washing away weeks of grime and sweat, while Elspeth applied herself to barbering me with utter aplomb. When we were together, she often shaved me; she was far gentler than any man, and it was a very pleasant feeling to lean back and let the woman I love keep my tart-catchers in the style she preferred. Once I was clean, shaven and dressed in new togs, I felt like a new man. 

Elspeth and I wanted to set about each other, but there’s no rest for the wicked. As soon as I was respectably togged-out and looking like an English gentleman instead of a ragged beggar, I was pounced on by one of the servants. “Terribly sorry, Ser Harry, but Ser Richard needs to see you in the main solar as soon as you’re able to come.” 

I held Elspeth close, looking into those bonny blue eyes and wishing that we were in bed, getting caught up on things. “Terribly sorry, m’dear, but duty calls. You’ve been a trump all these weeks I’ve been gone, but we’ll have some alone time soon.” Very soon, if the look I saw in her eyes meant anything. With a kiss to Elspeth, I let the servant lead me away.

Sure enough, Dick Burton was in the main solar. With several large mullioned windows, it had an excellent view of much of Kings Landing and the Red Keep, and let in plenty of sunlight. Without gaslights, that was a definite advantage to it, and it had been taken over and turned into the embassy’s main nerve centre. Dick was looking at a large map of Westeros that we’d tacked up on one wall, but turned to greet me with a warm smile when I came in.

“Harry! Now that we’re alone,” or as alone as we can be in this tower, was the unspoken corrolary…”I’d like to hear what happened to you. First we knew something was wrong was when your escorts came galloping in like the hounds of Hell were on their trails. They said something about the Stark woman kidnapping you along with the King’s brother-in-law. What’s your take on it?”

Knowing Dick, I knew he’d appreciate the truth. So, unusually for me, I told him everything that had happened, leaving out only the part about Gatehouse Amerei. A gentleman doesn’t mention a lady’s name, don’t you know…and while Elspeth was not present, there was no guarantee that such tittle-tattle wouldn’t reach her ears somehow or other. Least said, soonest mended, say I.

As I told my tale, Dick got angrier and angrier. By the time I was done, he was pacing up and down, smacking his fist into his open palm. He burst out, once I’d run down: “Damn their impudence! Damn them! Did they think they could just snatch a British envoy and get away with it clean? Not to mention, Lord Tyrion’s only the King’s uncle now! Did they think he was some nobody?” Since that was just what I had been thinking, I kept silence. When Dick Burton was angry, that was always a good policy anyway.

Dick smiled grimly. “Since you’ve gone, things have gone to sixes-and-sevens in Kings Landing. King Robert’s dead, Ned Stark sits in prison and Joffrey sits the throne.” I nodded; that sounded like what I had heard. “’Woe to thee, o land, whose King is a child!’” quoted Dick. I recognised the quotation as one of those Bible verses that Arnold had loved to spout, in and out of season. 

I had to agree that the verse was apposite. Joffrey reminded me, uncomfortably, of the rotters who had reigned over Rugby(4) when I’d arrived as a trembling new bug. Give such a one a whole kingdom as his personal possession, and life would rapidly become interesting, in the sense of the traditional Chinese curse. 

There were points I didn’t understand, though, and I knew that Dick Burton would have had his ear to the ground. The man had a talent for finding things out that would’ve startled a Gilzai. “How did King Robert meet his end?” When I’d seen him last, Robert had been fat, to be sure, but seemingly strong and hearty. And by no means past amorous sport, from the way he’d undressed the women about court with his eyes. 

An unworthy thought crawled through my mind: at least I wouldn’t have to worry about Elspeth putting horns on my head with the king now! While Elspeth would almost certainly have come a-running had Robert crooked his finger at her (and I was well out of the way, to be sure), I knew that Elspeth had much the same opinion of Joffrey as I did. She’d been privy to the reports we’d had on the heir apparent, and they all told a tale of a spoilt, cruel, dangerous boy in thrall to his mama. 

Dick gave me a quizzy look. “The King went out hunting, and a boar got him.” That struck me as at least a little rum, and Dick clearly agreed. For all his faults, King Robert was an expert hunter; back in India, he’d have been considered top-of-the-line at pig-sticking. And I’d seen the man ride. I didn’t think there was a horse in Westeros that could throw him. Dick caught my skeptical look. “Aye, there are rumours about just how it happened. The King was drinking. If there was something in the wine he wasn’t expecting, he could have been well off his game. And the Queen was suspiciously well-prepared for widowhood. Very shortly after Robert breathed his last, Lord Stark was arrested, and most of his men were killed. His eldest daughter’s currently being held in her apartments, and his youngest daughter’s disappeared.” He winked at me.

From the way he looked, I knew that Dick had some news he wasn’t sharing just yet. “I take it you know more about the whereabouts of the younger Lady Stark than you’re telling me?” 

He nodded. “She’s here, in the Embassy. We found her here just after we got news of her father’s arrest. How she got in, we can’t imagine, and she won’t say a word about it. We didn’t recognise her at first, since she was dressed more like a boy than a girl. When we finally managed to corner her…she’s a wild little thing, and incredibly agile and fast…she announced her identity and asked for asylum.” He grinned. “I will say that my own Isabel may have prompted her to ask. She took right to little Arya, although they couldn’t be more different.”

“Oh, wonderful,” I muttered. I could see this situation going South, and in a hurry. “Does anybody outside our embassy know she’s here? And do the Westerosi recognise our rights as an embassy to grant asylum?” Some nations, such as Persia, had no tradition of diplomatic immunity, and life at those embassies could get very interesting very quickly. I was very glad of our Marine guards, and the Gatlings and Sniders we’d stored away. From where we had them, we could deploy them almost instantly if we had to. HMS Penelope was still out in the harbour, and could almost certainly do unto the royal fleet what the Royal Navy had done unto the Chinese junks in the First Opium War, namely, reduce them to splinters. (5) 

All of a sudden the safe harbour I thought I’d found didn’t look so safe, after all. “How do our local British feel about this?”

“They’re lying low; many of them have also taken refuge in the embassy for the moment. We sent official condolences to the royal family on the King’s death, and congratulations to his successor. They don’t seem to quite know what to do about us. Right at the moment, the whole situation’s up in the air.” He grinned at me. “And I must say, although you do seem to have had a sticky time of it, your little adventure may well turn out well for us! The Lannister party is going to be dominant at court for at least some time, and all our informants say that they don’t forget friends or favours done them. Saving Lord Tyrion may well be repaid richly!”

Right at that moment, the repayment I wanted was a clear track back to London, with Elspeth beside me, but I knew better than to say any such thing. My reputation has been a boon to me many times, but it’s also been a bane. I just shrugged and said: “Couldn’t stand to see the plucky little fellow getting kicked around by that swine, and I purely can’t abide unfair trials!” Dick beamed; this helped cement my stature as a true John Bull Briton in his eyes better than any amount of bragging could’ve done. The odd thing is, I was telling the truth, for once in my life. 

Tyrion was a plucky fellow, and hadn’t deserved what had been done to him any more than I. And unfair trials…if theyre in my favour, that’s one thing, but trials rigged for the sole purpose of cancelling Flashy’s birth certificate, particularly for things I didn’t do, get right up my nose. 

In the meantime… “What in the world are we to do with young Lady Stark? The authorities will find out where she is eventually!”

Dick looked very innocent. “We shall, of course, turn her over to her mother or elder brother. They have every right to ask this of us.” Then he looked grim. “If anybody else asks for her and she doesn’t want to go, she’s under the protection of the British Crown and we’ll defend her to the death!” He didn’t know why I suddenly smiled reminiscently. I was remembering the Lady Yehonala, and how I had used nearly those exact words in Peking to stand off San-ko-lin-sen and his men. 

I was in no mood to do favors for the Starks, after the way Catelyn Stark had mistreated me, but I could see clearly that I’d be overruled if I raised objections. And, like it or not, on the outs with the Lannisters or not, the Starks were a major power in the land, and we had to keep that always in mind. Political biznai was the lifeblood of any embassy, ours no less than any other. “If Lady Catelyn Stark comes to the embassy, I want to be there,” I told Dick. “I want to see her face when she sees me, all safe and sound!”

Dick grinned and gave me a wink. Beelzebub might have winked that way at Lucifer. “We’ll make sure of it, Harry!”

[1] Sonsee-Array was the third daughter of Mangas Colorado, a war chief of the Mimbreno Apaches. After being captured by the Mimbrenos, her gratitude for having been saved from scalp-hunters by Flashman led to them being married. See Flashman and the Redskins.

[2] Yehonala, known today by her Chinese name of Cixi, was a Manchu woman and the Yi Concubine of the Xianfeng (Hsien-Feng) Emperor. After his death, she rose rapidly to power, becoming the true ruler of China until her death in 1908. See Flashman and the Dragon.

[3] Just prior to his departure for the Crimean War, Flashman had thought to surprise his lady at a house party, and had come upon a scene where Lord Cardigan, his former commander and a man with whom he was on very bad terms, was advancing with clear lecherous intent on a nearly-naked Elspeth. Flashman was never sure whether this was voluntary on Elspeth’s part or not (the situation was, at least, very ambiguous) and, as always, chose to give Elspeth the benefit of the doubt. See Flashman at the Charge.

[4] In Flashman’s time, the boys in English “public schools” largely ruled themselves, and were often the victims of what moderns would term very severe bullying. In various parts of the Flashman Papers, Flashman mentions the boys under whom he suffered at Rugby, before their departure and his aging allowed him to step up and become the bully who haunts Tom Brown’s Schooldays. 

[5] Flashman is not exaggerating at all. At this time, Western arms were so superior to most other countries’ that it was literally no real contest. For over a century (from the First Opium War to the eve of the Korean War) Western armies and navies could operate very much as they pleased in China, and the Chinese could do little to resist. The same situation applied in Africa, India and Central Asia, which was what made the colonial empires possible. The Japanese were the first “non-Western” people to adopt Western technology and weaponry sufficiently quickly to avoid being subjugated.


	11. Chapter 11

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 11

by Technomad

 

The next days were tense. We British stayed close to our embassy, and even took in some of the other people from our world who’d come to Westeros but whose governments had not established formal relations. There were some Yankee merchants (trust them to smell a profit; they could give a Scotchman a run for his money), a few Frenchies and Dutchmen, and even a Russian. With them, the embassy was crowded, but we made do as best we could. The Royal Marines were mainly moved back aboard HMS Penelope, so as to free up their barrack room for the guests. 

Little Lady Arya Stark turned out to be a whippet-lean girl of about ten or so, armed with a light sword she had improbably named “Needle.” She was a wild little creature, who resisted the well-meant attempts of the ladies of the embassy to get her into pinafores and other girls’ clothes. Instead, she clung steadfastly to the sort of garb she’d come in: a nondescript short tunic very like what boys wore here, trousers, and soft boots. She could easily have passed for one of the urchins who swarmed through the streets of Flea Bottom, save for her northern accent and the fact that she was fairly clean. She was prone to eccentric behaviour; she would stalk and catch the feral cats that were ever-present in the castle, and would do things like going about blindfolded, or standing on one foot for long periods of time. 

When Dick Burton found out that she’d been training in fencing, he was charmed, and took her directly under his wing.(1) One of his great loves was swordsmanship, and he was always eager to find new things to learn, and teach. My own swordsmanship is rather more limited, but raw necessity has made me, if I do say so, fairly handy with a blade. Even if I’d far prefer to feint, kick my opponent in the ballocks and run for the door, I can hold my own. As Ser Vardis Egen had found out, to his great cost. Never push Flashy into a corner, for he has more tricks than you can imagine! 

Soon they were practicing together on a regular basis. Isabel Burton was overjoyed; I had long sensed that she regretted very much that she’d never borne a child of her own. Elspeth was quite amused to see the other mem-sahibs clucking to themselves about young Lady Stark’s “unladylike” interest in fencing. Not to mention the stories she told about growing up at Winterfell, climbing trees and running all but wild every chance she could get away from the watch-dragon set to keep an eye on her and her sister.

“Unlike those ladies, my jo,” Elspeth murmured to me, when we were recovering from a most splendid gallop in bed, “I’ve been in some strange places before coming here. Remember Madagascar? It was so good, knowing you were there to defend me…but what if you’d no’ been there?” She looked at me, her big blue eyes as guileless as ever. “Westeros’s no’ as siccar as London, or even a station in India! Particularly with the situation as unsettled as it is! Harry, my love…” I suddenly had a sense of where she was going, and opened my mouth, only to have her gently shut it again, “could you see to it that I learn to shoot? And at least the basics of sword work?”

Put that way, and with the wicked things she was doing to me with her spare hand, I couldn’t say no. The next day, I talked with Dick, and soon he had Elspeth out in the salle along with young Lady Stark. I noticed that Isabel soon joined in, and I could see that she’d put in time before, training with her husband. But then, Isabel Burton worshipped the water she thought Dick walked on, for some insane reason.

One of the few Britons who still roamed freely about Kings Landing was my dear old commander, John Charity Spring. Murderous madman though he was, he had never lacked courage, and he walked the streets as though nothing was wrong. His nasty quirks had not affected either his intelligence or his hearing, and he was a fountain of information. He had “business” connections all through Kings Landing, and those people were quite willing to tell him things. While I rather hoped he’d come to grief somewhere like Flea Bottom, so far he’d come strolling in every evening, unharmed and full of the day’s gossip.

“Aye,” he growled one evening, when he’d come in from a day’s rambles, “things are at sixes-and-sevens. All the Stark retainers, and everybody who was too friendly with the Starks, are under lock and key as we speak, ex curia. The Lannister faction’s riding mighty high. Word has it that Lord Eddard’s facing treason charges.” He snorted. “My own take is that Lord Eddard’s about as likely to have turned on King Robert as I am to turn Turk! Falsi crimem!”(2)

Loath as I was to agree with anything Spring said, I had to admit that he’d put his finger on it. The few dealings I’d had with Ned Stark had given me the impression of a stiff, rather humorless chap, not my sort of companion, but one who was devoted to his family and his friends. And he and King Robert had been, however improbably, the firmest of friends. I’d seen Robert turn red and roar at the Queen in public when she dared to criticise the Hand over some decision he’d made. And Ned went cold and quiet, deadly cold and deadly quiet, when anybody spoke against the King in his hearing.

But that wasn’t all that Spring had heard. “Apparently there’s been reports that King Joffrey’s not truly the son of the late King. Filus non est pars patris!(3) Rumour has it that his real father is Ser Jaime!” At this, a chorus of shocked gasps went around the room. “Lord Stannis, the king’s brother, believes it, and he’s now claiming the throne for himself. If the claim’s true, he is the nearest heir, since the story has it that Queen Cersei put horns on her husband’s head to the point that none of her children are his!”

The expressions of pious shock that went around the room amused me. I knew perfectly well that incest was rife in the lower reaches of British society, and by no means unknown among their social betters. Of course, my pious countrymen would never have admitted that such things went on, but I had had more than enough experience prowling through the lower depths to be quite certain. In some areas of London, very few girls reached adulthood without being investigated by their fathers, uncles or older brothers. And the same held true for other European cities.(4)

Judging from what I had seen of her, Queen Cersei had despised her husband. Even if she hadn’t gone as far as to seduce her own brother, I could easily imagine her going out of her way to make sure that the heirs to the throne were none of his blood. And I’d seldom, or never, seen a mating between a blonde and a darker-haired person where the resulting sprogs were not dark-haired. My own children, Harry Albert Victor (Havvy) and the others, were all of them as dark as I am, and I’ve passed myself off successfully as a Pathan and an Arab. For all of my suspicions about her faithfulness, Elspeth had apparently taken precautions to not get with child by anybody but her lawful-wedded husband.(5) She had a fine nose for scandal herself, and knew fully well that presenting me with a red-headed “Flashman” would cause talk.

“So what do you think ‘King’ Stannis’ chances are?” That was Dick Burton. Trust him to get to the meat of the matter. While we officially supported King Joffrey, we might well be ordered to switch our support to Stannis, should he prove the stronger. Westerosi internal conflicts were none of our biznai. Thank God for that! Otherwise, I might have found myself leading a screaming charge into the teeth of an army of angry Northmen, along with Tyrion!

That reminded me that I hadn’t thought about Tyrion since I’d been back. While most of the human race (save only Elspeth) could drop off the face of the globe and I’d not miss ‘em until I noticed that the quality of service had gone down, I will admit that the dwarf had grown on me. Sharing imprisonment and peril had bound us together, rather like being in the same regiment might have. Dwarf or no, he was an uncommon plucky chap, excellent company and with a sidewise way of looking at the world that appealed to me. 

I wondered if Tyrion had survived the battle that had impended when I’d managed to make my escape. From things he’d said, his father despised him as much as his sister did, and wouldn’t have minded one bit if Tyrion was one of the casualties of the battle. Putting him in the forefront of the Lannister line, even with his wild clansmen behind him, sounded to me very like the gambit that chap in the Bible, David, had used to get his hands on that bint Bathsheba. Not that Tyrion had a luscious wife that his guv’nor lusted after…all the reports we had on Lord Tywin agreed that the man did not seem to like women. I’d have suspected that he was part of the Dick’s hatband brigade, but apparently he’d never been seen showing any interest in men, either. Maybe he had the same sort of problem that James Brooke had?(6)

Reports from the north were that the fighting had been inconclusive. The Lannisters had won the battle that Tyrion had been in, but in another fight, Robb Stark had not only won, but had managed to capture Ser Jaime Lannister! I imagined this would send his father into a rage. While Lord Tywin detested his dwarf son, he thought the world of his handsome, debonair elder son, “Kingslayer” or no. 

Finally, an announcement came from the King, that there would be a public event where “the traitor, Eddard Stark, lately Lord of the North and King’s Hand to our beloved father, King Robert, whom the Seven assoil, shall confess his crimes and receive the King’s justice and mercy.” Put that way, that did not sound reassuring, or good for Lord Eddard. Queen Cersei, through the agency of that pestilential brat she’d popped out, was riding very high in the saddle, and she detested the ground the Starks walked on. Spring’s comment of “Cave quid dicis, quando, et cui,”(7) was not really necessary. Even though we’d been forced by necessity to come out, to tend to business we couldn’t afford to let go by the boards, or to attend court, all of us could feel the tension in the air.

I noticed some things. Firstly, that Lady Sansa had not been mentioned at all. She’d been affianced to Joffrey before he ascended to the throne, and, particularly since her elder brother was now officially a rebel and her father, apparently, a traitor, she had the strongest blood claim to the North. While much of the North was a thinly-populated wilderness, it was still by far the biggest of the Seven Kingdoms, and holding it was crucial. What had happened to Lady Sansa?

Lady Arya was no help at all. Apparently, she and her sister had been estranged for some time. “That lying cow got my wolf driven away! She lied to the King and Queen and got my wolf driven away! And that worthless Joffrey got Mycah killed over nothing!” She sniffled for a minute, before giving us a ferocious glare. “I got him back, though! I disarmed him with a stick, then I threw his rotten old ‘Lion’s Tooth’ sword in the river! And he never recovered it!”

Lady Sansa was, from all of our reports on her, a sweet, biddable girl, every mother’s dream of the ideal daughter. Lady Arya, on the other hand, would probably have been far happier had she been a boy; she regaled us with tales of her “dancing” (read: fencing) master, a Braavosi named Syrio Forel. 

When she came to the part about how she’d escaped from the Lannister soldiers who’d been sent to scoop her up in the wake of her father’s arrest, Dick Burton’s eyes went wide with admiration, and the ladies present were all piping their eyes. All alone, with nothing but a wooden sword, this Forel cove had cast defiance into the teeth of six fully-armed soldiers led by a knight in full armour, and then held them off long enough for Lady Arya to run and hide and get herself out of danger. 

“Oh, I wish I’d known he was here! How I should have loved to compare techniques!” That was Dick Burton. Myself, I was just as glad to have avoided that confrontation. Six fully-armed soldiers is more than enough to convince Flash that he needs to be elsewhere.

Soon afterwards, we found that we’d been summoned “to witness the justice and mercy of the King.” We all got into our finest Court clothes, those of us with gongs wearing them proudly on our chests, our wives sporting the latest fashions from Paris. Even those among the distaff set who’d taken to wearing the more comfortable Westerosi fashions in private made sure to look as though they’d just stepped out of the court of the Emperor Napoleon III. The latest Godey’s Lady’s Book (8) had come in on the last ship from Europe, and had been seized and pored over eagerly by every woman in the Embassy. 

As befit his rank of ambassador, Dick took the lead, with Isabel on his arm, looking utterly radiant. Elspeth and I came right behind, and I have to say, Elspeth looked a proper peach. She was wearing a Parisian confection that set off her blonde good looks extremely well; when she had worn it at a formal reception earlier, King Robert and most of the knights about court had hardly been able to take their eyes off her, and if I am any judge, Queen Cersei had felt completely upstaged and spent the evening doing a slow burn. Serves her jolly well right for thinking she could hold a candle to my Elspeth, says I.

Along with the other foreign dignitaries, including Jalabhar Xho in his finest feathers, a delegation from the city-state of Braavos whom I suspected of being more in the pay of the Iron Bank than the government of Braavos, and various other exotic folk, we waited developments, drawn up in formation on a balcony with a good view of the main square of Kings Landing. The spires of the Great Sept gleamed in the sun, and the breeze was off the sea. Off in the distance, I could see HMS Penelope, a reassuring sight when in partibus infidelium,(9) as Spring would say.

Lord Eddard appeared, looking much the worse for wear, between a pair of burly guards. The crowd went quiet as he confessed to various treasons. Dick Burton and I shared skeptical glances. The confession he was making sounded both forced and unconvincing, and unlike the man we’d dealt with in our diplomatic capacities. From the murmurs we could hear, we weren’t the only ones having a hard time believing it.

Over on his battlement, King Joffrey stood, the crown glinting on his golden hair. “Bring me his head!” This was unexpected. Word had been that in return for his confession, Lord Eddard would be sent to the Wall in the North, to join the Night’s Watch. This was a sentence of lifetime exile and deprivation of lands, family and property, but it beat death all hollow. It was what was used to dispose of many criminals or accused criminals. 

Ser Ilyn Payne, the tongueless executioner, had been awaiting the signal. He raised a big sword, and Lord Eddard’s head rolled on the steps of the Great Sept. That startled a lot of people, and I could see they weren’t happy about it. Like churches in Europe, septs were considered to be polluted by blood spilled on the premises. I imagine the High Septon would have a few words to say about this.

Or maybe not. I felt a chill as I realised that once again, I’d been precipitated into a situation where my life was at the mercy of a mad monarch. I don’t know if there’s some sort of world’s record for that, but if so, I imagine I’m well in the running for it. And to think that, if I only had my own way about things, I’d never stir from safe, peaceable London! It’s hell sometimes, having a reputation for insane courage and love of derring-do. 

After some words from King Joffrey, we were dismissed, and hurried back to our relatively-safe embassy tower. When we got there, we had more news to digest. The servants were in a tizzy.

“Ser Richard, please, forgive us! We weren’t watching her closely, and now, we can’t find her!” This got Dick’s attention instantly. 

“What do you mean? Who is missing?” he snapped. He drew himself up to his full height, his black eyes burning. If he’d been looking at me that way, I’d have almost certainly run for my life. However, the servants had had years of experience dealing with their unpredictable lords, and stood their ground.

“Lady Arya! She was up on the battlements of the tower, watching, and when she saw her father, she squirmed away from us! Before we could get at her, she was down the stairs and gone! She’s faster than we are, and a lot more agile on these stairs!” That, at least, was almost certainly truth. The servants were not young, for the most part, and many of them were unsteady on the steep stairs. 

“Well, find her! She can’t have gone far!” With that command, we spread out, searching the whole embassy. Lady Arya’s quarters were suggestive, in that she’d taken that sword she’d had when she turned up, along with a backpack, some spending money she’d been given, and a nondescript cloak. Once she was out of the front door, where our guards had had no orders to keep her in, she could slip into any crowd and disappear. Dick was furious, while Isabel and Elspeth mourned her loss and feared for her safety. Me, I had had enough to do with her to fear for the safety of any fool stupid enough to dare to interfere with her, and I had a pretty good idea of where she’d gone. Her mother and brother were to the North, and that was where she would almost certainly go.

[1] Richard Burton was one of the foremost experts on swordsmanship in nineteenth-century Europe. He wrote a book on the subject, The Book of the Sword, that is still read today.

[2] Falsi crimen: A false accusation.

[3] Filus non est pars patris: The son is no part of the father---in other words, he is illegitimate.

[4] This is known through various reports made by people who investigated conditions in the slums. 

[5] Birth control, while frowned upon, was far from unknown in Victorian times, and was often resorted to by women who wished to keep their fertility within reasonable bounds while enjoying conjugal relations. Advertisements for birth control, and abortifacents, were commonly seen, even though they had to be phrased in coded language for fear of the laws and mores of the time.

[6] See Flashman’s Lady. Flashman had met Rajah James Brooke, the English Rajah of Sarawak, in the 1840s, and had been puzzled by his lack of reaction to the bare-breasted local women. There were rumours to the effect that the wound that had forced Brooke’s resignation from the armies of the East India Company had involved permanent injury to his genitals; it is known that he had no children of his own.

[7] Cave quid dicis, quando, et cui: Be careful what you say, when, and to whom. Excellent advice for anybody, particularly in such parlous circumstances as Flashman finds himself in.

[8] Godey’s Lady’s Book was a periodical of the time, covering the latest fashions.

[9] In partibus infidelium: In the lands of the infidels. 

END


	12. Chapter 12

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 12

by Technomad

After the execution of Ned Stark, things calmed down, at least enough for most of the Britons and others who’d taken refuge in our embassy to leave and go back to their affairs. Lady Stark had disappeared, as though she’d vanished in a puff of smoke, and the mem-sahibs of the embassy worried about her safety. 

However, Lady Arya was not really our concern once she left our protection. If she came back, she’d be made welcome, but we had other fish to fry. Without a King or a King’s Hand in town, we had to deal with Queen Cersei, and she was not the easiest person I’d ever struck to palaver with. 

Dick Burton came back from an audience with the Queen one evening and poured himself a stiff tot of “pusser’s” rum, a souvenir from HMS Warrior. “Flash,” he said, once he’d got outside his drink, “trying to get that woman to agree to anything would drive a saint to distraction! She’s ignorant of almost everything she needs to know to rule this place, utterly unwilling to admit to ignorance, and expects to be applauded every minute of her life, for shedding the light of her countenance on us mere human beings!”

Feeling that he needed to be kept company, and noticing that the jug of rum still had a lot in it, I poured myself a drink and joined him, although I’d have preferred brandy. “Sounds rather like Lord Cardigan with teats!” He laughed ruefully. I had regaled him with many tales of the interesting times I’d had in the Cherrypickers (1), and he knew all about Lord Cardigan. 

Just then, a servant entered. “Begging your pardons, Ser Richard, Ser Harry, but Ser Richard specifically ordered that he was to be reminded that tomorrow is the King’s Name Day Tournament. His Majesty specifically commanded all foreign envoys to attend him on that day.”

“And we mustn’t disappoint His Majesty, must we?” Dick muttered, before turning to the servant. “Thank you; please inform my valet that he is to lay out garments suitable for such an occasion, and speak to my lady wife’s maidservants about the occasion, so that she may also be ready.” After the servant had bowed himself out, Dick sighed. “Well, Flash, there’s never a day off in the diplomatic. Best tell your servants to have fine rig-outs for you and your good lady. Wouldn’t do at all to have these Westerosi barbarians sneering at Her Majesty’s representatives, would it, now?”

The tournament, to my disappointment, was rather a wash. There was not much of a crowd, and the event was small enough to be held in the main courtyard of the Red Keep, unlike the tournament that had been held in honour of Ned Stark when he had been Hand. We were seated in places of honour, not far from the King, and, to my surprise, Sansa Stark. From where I sat, I could see Lady Sansa, and while the resemblance to her mother was there, she was clearly cowed and terrified. Her father’s head was still visible from where we sat, so I could see why she was so scared. 

Elspeth, sitting beside me, muttered into my ear: “My maidservant told me that King Joffrey dragged her up onto the parapets of the castle, and showed her the heads of her father, some of his supporters, and even the septa who’d taught her! And then said that he planned to kill her brother!” I could tell that Elspeth was furious on little Lady Sansa’s behalf, and rather pitied the King if Elspeth got a good chance at him. I didn’t think that was good form on the King’s part at all, and uneasily remembered some of the other mad, dangerous monarchs it’s been my unwanted privilege to deal with.(2) 

I’d never seen jousting before, but to judge from the reactions of those who had, the day’s sport was disappointing, at best. The knights riding were by no means the best, mostly due to the war. Almost all the best ones were off with the armies, leaving the dregs, for the most part, to compete. I had no experience with this particular sport, but I judged that as a horseman, I was easily the equal of anybody competing on that day.

I was rather lost in a daydream, thinking longingly of being back in London for the Season, when all of a sudden, an altercation erupted. We were instantly on the alert; Joffrey’s behaviour had always been erratic, and he had been known to order up executions on what seemed like little or no provocation. While, as British envoys, we were theoretically safe from his murderous whims, we all knew that meant little when we were far-foreign. Uneasily, I remembered Parkes, in China, saying “No harm will come to me! My person is inviolate!” And, later on, recovering him from a Chinese dungeon. (3) Much good his “inviolability” had done him!

However, the King wasn’t shouting at us. As it turned out, Ser Dontos Hollard, one of the two dupes King Robert had sent to Britain, had been scheduled to ride in the tourney. However, he had turned up all but paralytic drunk, half-naked, and in bits of his armour. He stumbled around, trying to catch his horse, and finally sat down, yelling “I lose! Bring me some wine!” I had a hard time keeping a straight face, seeing him, and I could tell that behind her demure exterior, Elspeth was suppressing a laugh by main force. Not being as restrained as we British, the locals were all but falling over themselves, they were laughing so hard. The whole courtyard echoed to their mirth.

Joffrey, the ass, took all this as a personal affront. “He wants to drink, does he?” I heard him scream. “Then bring in a barrel of wine, and drown him in it!” At this, the crowd went quiet, and I felt Elspeth grab my arm tight. Dick Burton narrowed his eyes, and when Isabel whispered in his ear, he shook his head. This was internal Westerosi business, and the king, even more than most Westerosi nobles, had the right of high and low justice on all his subjects. There was nothing we could do that would not precipitate, at least, a serious rupture in relations, and us being summoned Home to explain our failure to our sovereign lady. 

We could do nothing, but the Lady Sansa could. The clever little chit spoke up: “Oh, my gracious King, no! To do such a thing on your name-day would bring you bad luck!” She put her hand out, appealing for mercy. 

Whatever else could be said of the Starks, nobody could ever say that they were cowards. In her shoes, I’d have let the fool drown and be damned to him. I’m not averse to a drink or six, but showing up more than half-seas-over at an event like that’s the mark of an utter imbecile. I’d known that Ser Dontos was fond of a drink, but this was behaviour that would have got him cashiered had he tried it on as an officer in the Army. I’d seen enlisted men flogged to ribbons for much less. 

Joffrey made as if to hit Sansa, but she was undeterred. “He’s made a fool of himself, your Majesty, so make him a fool!”(4) That idea appealed to the sadistic little bugger; before you could say “Jack Robinson,” ex-Ser Dontos was stripped of his clothes and put into motley, before being dragged off. We British sat back and gave sighs of relief. I’d not liked Ser Dontos much, and thought him a prime ass, but watching him being drowned in wine would have been a bit steep, even for me. And, let us not forget, we had our ladies with us. They would have been dreadfully upset. 

Elspeth murmured: “It’s a pity some folk we know can’t be sentenced to the same fate!” From the way she cut her eyes to Isabel Burton, I thought I had an idea of whom she meant. There had been a commotion earlier, when Isabel had been caught preaching the Catholic faith to some castle servants and hangers-on. She’d been warned that some of the local septons and septas might not take well to this activity, and had only subsided after a private talk with her husband. After that, the servants had been quietly told to keep watch on her, and report her activities to us. I had to chuckle at the thought of Isabel Burton being sentenced to a lifetime of bells and motley.

Meanwhile, the King had ordered the tourney halted, but had apparently been talked into letting his little brother, Prince Tommen, ride at the quintain. To a chorus of sighs from our ladies, the gallant little fellow, no more than three pisspots high, rode out on his little pony, yelled in his high voice: “Casterly Rock!” and rode straight at the quintain. I noticed both his choice of battle-cry, and the fact that the helmet on the quintain had antlers, which was a Baratheon trademark. Of course, the King’s uncle on his father’s side, Stannis Baratheon, had raised his banner and laid a claim to the kingdom, but for a Baratheon prince to do this was rum, indeed. Could it be true that he and his sibs were no get of King Robert, but of Ser Jaime and his sister, the Queen? 

Prince Tommen’s lance hit the quintain, but he wasn’t able to avoid it as it spun; the counterweight came flying around to knock him sprawling. All of our ladies moaned in protest, then cheered to see the brave boy get up and go after his horse, clearly intending to ride again. I cut a glance at the King, to see a sneer of contempt on his face. Well, you bloody swine, thought I; at least your brother’s out there, riding, which is more than I’ve ever seen you do! Much I should talk, of course. I wouldn’t mount up for a tournament for a pension and peerage. The sport’s bloody dangerous, and no fun at all in my eyes.

Then the main gate of the castle opened, and a strange procession came riding on in. Some of them, to judge from their livery and gear, were Lannister soldiers. I’d seen more than enough of those to recognise them instantly. They did not look nearly so pristine as the ones I’d seen at the inn at the crossroads; these men, to my eye, had clearly been in a scrap or two recently. Others were mountain tribesmen from the Mountains of the Moon. It was a bit far to see, but I thought I knew some of ‘em. And, in the lead, was none other than Tyrion Lannister, with Bronn and Timett right by his side!

What, I wondered, was Tyrion doing back in Kings Landing, with such a following? Suddenly, I was glad I’d come. This looked to be very interesting. And I remembered that Tyrion had said he was in my debt. 

Prince Tommen and his elder sister, Princess Myrcella, ran up to their uncle with squeals of delight. He greeted them both warmly, and I noted that they were about his height. The prince and princess avoided their royal brother as much as they could get away with, and I suspected Joffrey of venting his cruelty on them. 

When he untangled himself from his niece and nephew, Tyrion strode on up to the King and went to one knee. It had gone very quiet, and I could hear every word that passed. All us British were as quiet as mice in a cat’s house, not wanting to miss this. “Your Grace,” Tyrion greeted his nephew.

“You,” Joffrey answered. That was Joffrey all over…about as warm and inviting as a workhouse matron. Of course, his mother wasn’t to be seen. The Queen detested her dwarf brother, but observed all the courtesies when others were present. Joffrey, being King, clearly felt he was above such details.

“Me,” Tyrion agreed. “A more courteous greeting would be in order for an uncle and an elder, though.” The scar-faced gyascuta standing behind the King said something I didn’t catch, and Tyrion gave him a look. “I was speaking to the King, not his cur.” 

I looked at the knight more closely. When I recognised his heraldry, I shuddered slightly. That was Sandor Clegane, brother and enemy to the giant Ser Gregor Clegane. I’d noted him about court; he was a killing gentleman if ever I’d seen one, and intimidating enough that even John Charity Spring, who was too mad to feel fear, did not care to cross him. He refused to be knighted, saying that knighthood was a load of codswallop. Secretly, I had to agree, for all of my own “Sir.” I knew too many knights, and nobles, come to it, whom I’d not trust behind my back for one second. The allocade doesn’t make a wrong ‘un good. 

Tyrion and the King exchanged unpleasantries for a bit, with Tyrion pointedly condoling with his sister’s children over the loss of their father, and making sure to include Lady Sansa. Finally, the King stood up and swept off, with his faithful Sandor behind him, and Lord Tyrion looked over and saw me. His eyes lit up. “Ser Harry! It’s good to see you again!” He came over and offered his hand, his ugly face wreathed in a big smile. 

` I grabbed his fin and wrung it. Whatever else, we’d been through some sticky times together, and that makes a bond between men. “You’re looking well, Lord Tyrion! I hear you’ve been in the fighting!” I had, indeed, heard that, but Tyrion showed signs of having seen combat. He had bandages on him, and was bruised up in ways that had nothing to do with our mutual ordeal in the sky cells. 

“Oh, you know how it goes. We Lannisters can’t resist the sound of the trumpets!” Tyrion’s mismatched eyes roved over the rest of the British delegation. “Are these your countrymen?”

“Pardon me! Allow me to introduce my wife, the Lady Flashman!” Elspeth clasped Tyrion’s hand and gave him one of her dazzling smiles; Tyrion was plainly very pleased with her, and my sweet wife is so vain she’d stand preening in front of an avalanche in the mountains if someone had winked at her. Tyrion had charm by the bucket, dwarf or no dwarf, and I made a mental note to keep a weather eye on Elspeth. “This is Lady Burton, and her husband, Sir Richard Burton, the Ambassador to the Seven Kingdoms.” I went on, introducing all the rest of the embassy personnel who’d come along to the tournament. “Will you join us for dinner? We’d be curious to hear all about your adventures!” 

“I’d love to, Ser Harry, but duty calls. I need to pay a call on my sweet sister!” I knew Tyrion, and I knew that expression well. He had something up his foreshortened sleeve, something that the Queen would not like. 

Dick and I exchanged glances, and he nodded slightly. “With your permission, my lord, may I accompany you?” One of my jobs was to gather information, and having a source as highly placed in the government as Tyrion was a godsend. He thought of me as a friend and his loyal companion, and if I could use that connexion to gather important facts as grist for our mill, so much the better!

Tyrion gave me a quizzy look. “I’m not sure.” He pulled out a rolled sheet of paper with what I recognised as his father’s seal on it. “My father is Hand of the King, but he’s not able to be here in Kings Landing, so he deputised me to act in his stead until he can return.” He carefully tucked the paper away. “I’m for the Small Council meeting, directly I’m out of here, and I don’t know how they’d feel about me bringing you along. That said, I would if I could. I’ve not forgotten how you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me.” 

That gobsmacked me, and I exchanged glances with Dick. On the surface, Dick was as impassive as a Comanche chieftain, but I could tell that he wanted to dance and sing for joy. This was a windfall that any diplomat, or intelligence-wallah, would cheerfully sell his soul for, and it had dropped straight into my lap! I wrung Tyrion’s hand warmly. “Well, congratulations, old chap! Couldn’t happen to a worthier fellow! You’ll do the job proud, if I’m any judge!” Tyrion beamed. In our time of acquaintance, he had let slip enough for me to judge that he was well aware of his capabilities, and starved for praise by his family. The more I toadied him, the more likely he was to let slip important facts.

And the thing was, I wasn’t really toadying, for once in my life. Tyrion was an intelligent chap, and save for the fact of his dwarfism, he’d have been one of the foremost men of the realm long since. I’ve knocked about the odd corners of the worlds enough to be aware that judging by appearances can land one, arse over appetite, straight into the mulligatawny. Like the time some yokel had run into me when I was accompanying Kit Carson, on my first trip West, and refused to believe that Kit was really Kit, since he didn’t look like much and I look like every schoolboy’s dream hero. Kit had been quite amused to see me taken for him, but it was a lesson I’d not forgotten. (5)

Tyrion strode off into the castle, his oddly-assorted entourage following him, and I turned to find myself facing Dick Burton. Dick was shaking his head rather ruefully. “Flash, I’ve got to say, our sovereign lady knew what she was doing when she tapped you for this post!” He smiled, a rather frightening sight. “If I don’t look sharp, you may end up in my job and I’ll be back on Fernando Po!” (6)

[1] Flashman’s military service had begun in the 11th Light Dragoons (later, Prince Albert’s Own 11th Hussars), known as “Cherrypickers” after an incident in the Spanish campaign of the Napoleonic Wars.

[2] Flashman may have met more mad, or at least dangerous, monarchs than anybody else in history. The list includes Akbar Khan of Afghanistan, Gezo of Dahomey, Ranavalona I of Madagascar, Maharani Jeendan of the Punjab, Rani Lakshmibhai of Jhansi, Hung Hsiu-Ch’uan of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, Empress Cixi of China, Theodore of Abyssinia, and possibly others in packets of the Flashman Papers that have yet to be opened. Joffrey of the Seven Kingdoms fit right in with the others, and when Flashman speaks of him as mad and dangerous, he speaks with the voice of great experience.

[3] Sir Harry Parkes (1828-1885) was an envoy, fluent in Chinese, who was operating in China at the time of the Second Opium War. He was with Flashman just before they were captured, but they were separated in captivity. Parkes survived his ordeal, but other British prisoners did not. See Flashman and the Dragon.

[4] Westeros, and some of its neighboring kingdoms, had a tradition of “court fools” very similar to that followed in medieval and Renaissance-era Europe. 

[5] On his first trip into the American West, Flashman had fallen in with the great scout and pioneer Kit Carson. Even as early as 1850, there were “dime novels” being published about Carson’s supposed adventures, and people would often come a long way to see him. See Flashman and the Redskins.

[6] Due to his talent for rubbing important people the wrong way, Sir Richard Burton spent years of his career at the unimportant British outpost on Fernando Po Island, in present-day Equatorial Guinea.

END Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 13

by Technomad

A few days later, I managed to get Tyrion to join us for dinner. He was quite curious to meet my fellow-Britons, and I gave the cooks orders to lay on a feast fit for royalty. While Tyrion wasn’t royalty, strictly speaking, he was effectively ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Or at least those parts of the realm that still answered to Kings Landing. Rebellion was popping up all over, and I didn’t envy him his position one bit. If Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon took Kings Landing, his head would be on a spike. 

Tyrion turned up right on time, with Bronn behind him and a squad of Stone Crows following, led by none other than Shagga son of Dolf. The man-mountain was now carrying two good steel axes, I noticed, and was just as hairy as ever, but rather sweeter-smelling. I wondered what inducements had been used to get him to bathe; from what I could see, and had smelled while among them, the clansmen of the Mountains of the Moon considered bathing to be a soft lowland custom. 

Luckily, I had warned the servants about what to expect. I had heard that Tyrion went everywhere with his bodyguards, and I heartily approved of that precaution. The situation in Kings Landing was unstable at best, and Tyrion himself was far from popular with the smallfolk. John Charity Spring had reported that they blamed Tyrion for the bad times, since shortly after his arrival things had taken turn after turn for the worse. There were mutters to the effect that he’d somehow or other arranged “good King Robert’s” death. 

Once we had the clansmen, and Bronn, set up down in the servants’ hall, with a generous but not over-plentiful supply of wine and food to keep them occupied, Tyrion accompanied me to the main dining area, where those of us whose places were above the salt ate. It wasn’t a regimental dining-in with colours, but it would do for us. 

There were a few Britons present whom Tyrion had not met, so as his host, I took it upon myself to introduce him to them. Tyrion was his usual charming self, and I could tell that he had most of my countrymen (and –women!) eating out of his hand. Aye, thought I, he’s one to watch! Turn him loose in London during the Season, and watch the havoc he’d wreak! 

Over dinner, he regaled us with the tale of how he’d come strolling into the Small Council chamber, much to the displeasure of his sister. I’d have paid well to be able to be present, even without the intelligence I could swot up. Queen Cersei had threatened to tear up the letter from their father naming him as Acting Hand, and throw him into a dungeon. That was just about as foolish an action as I would’ve expected of her. She was a dazzling beauty, but so ruled by her emotions that I thought Mary Queen of Scots would’ve been a better ruler for Westeros. And she’d molded her son in her own image. I shuddered at the thought of what Joffrey would be like as a grown man and a king. 

However, there were too many witnesses to the existence of the letter, and Cersei couldn’t rid herself of all of them. She depended heavily on them to do the things that she, a woman, could not do. And she had to admit that her brother, thoroughly as she despised him, had brains. They had forged an uneasy agreement, fuelled by the revelation that Tyrion had thought of a way to get their brother Ser Jaime back. Unfortunately, they only had one Stark to trade; Arya had disappeared, and Lord Eddard had been executed. 

I glanced uneasily around the table at the mention of Arya Stark, but my countrymen and –women turned up trumps. To see them, they had no more idea of where Arya Stark had been, or where she had got to, than anybody else in Kings Landing. Apparently Lord Varys’ spy system wasn’t as complete in our embassy as it apparently was elsewhere in the Red Keep, or we’d managed to clear the spies out. The local servants had seen her, but we’d made a point of not mentioning her name or speaking to her by name when they were about. Arya, clever chit that she was, had twigged instantly to what we were doing, and had said little or nothing when the locals were in earshot. She also didn’t look like what the locals expected a scion of an ancient, noble, formerly-royal house to look like, which was a big help in our deception.

When the conversation veered away from such dangerous topics, I breathed a little easier. Tyrion said that he was in the market for a chain. Not just any chain, but a huge, long chain, big enough to stretch across the mouth of the harbour. 

Ruffian Dick spoke up: “Ah, like the chain that once protected Constantinople!”(1) I had no idea what he was talking about, but Dick Burton was as much a learned scholar as he was a suicidally-brave explorer, and I assumed that he knew whereof he spoke.

Tyrion, of course, didn’t know what Dick was talking about, so Dick launched into an explanation. John Charity Spring helped out; he was a considerable classic and had read deeply in the Greek authors, including the medieval writers who described the formidable defences of Constantinople. Tyrion nodded thoughtfully as they explained what the Great Chain of Constantinople did.

“Ah, I see that we’re reading from the same page,” Tyrion said finally. “I’m going to be talking to the smiths on the Street of the Smiths, and have them all working on forging such a chain for our harbour here. I’ve some plans in train, and such a chain would make them ever so much easier to put into practice.”

“But, my lord,” piped up Elspeth, “why go to so much trouble when you can contract chains from Britain? We’ve got techniques you’ve never seen nor heard of, and can forge chains of the sort you want in any length you desire!” For all her pride in her father’s boughten nobility, Elspeth was a Scots mill owner’s daughter and had all her late father’s commercial acumen. 

Tyrion gave Elspeth a long, considering look. “I did not know that, my lady. Have you any proof?” 

Edmund Blackadder, our commercial attache, said: “As a matter of fact, my lord, I’ve photographic proof. Baldrick,” he turned to his manservant, a grubby idiot with a permanently vacant expression, “fetch me the scrapbook from my quarters, and at least try not to eat it!” To a chorus of snickers (Baldrick’s reputation had permeated the embassy, along with his unfortunate odour problem) Baldrick nodded and ran off up the stairs to his master’s quarters, returning with a thick, leather-bound book. Blackadder took it and opened it, looking for a particular page. When he found it, he nodded and passed it over to Tyrion.

“See, my lord? That’s Isembard Kingdom Brunel, with the launching chains for his ship the Great Eastern.” (2) Tyrion’s mismatched eyes opened wide. I think that that photograph brought the industrial might of Great Britain home to him for the first time. He hadn’t seen much of our modern weaponry, and apparently paid little heed to the HMS Penelope. Lying at anchor offshore, the Royal Navy ironclad looked deceptively ordinary.

In the photograph, Isembard Brunel was standing in front of the hugest chains I had ever seen, each link easily the weight of a man and three or so feet long. To someone from a medieval backwater such as Westeros, the implications had to be staggering. And Tyrion may have been short, and rather odd-looking, but nobody with experience of him (other than that sister of his, judging from his tales) had ever underestimated his wits. 

“Seven save us all! I can hardly believe it! How did you make this picture?” It struck me that this was probably the first photograph that Tyrion had ever seen. “I can see every last detail of this man’s clothing! Even the finest limners we have in Westeros couldn’t do this!”

“Photography, my lord,” said Blackadder. “It involves exposing a special plate to light under very controlled circumstances. It’s rather an involved subject, but I’m sure there are people here who can explain, or, if you prefer, we could send for a photographer from Britain.” I could see what was going on in his mind. If being photographed became the newest rage among the Westerosi rich, that meant more money flowing into British coffers, and increasing that flow was Blackadder’s job. 

“Please see to it, sir,” said Tyrion. He was looking rather less cocky than he had when he had strutted in. I think that he was beginning to realise just how powerful Britain is, and how far behind Westeros was. Finding out unexpectedly that you’re sitting in the lair of a lion is no fun at all, particularly when you’ve no idea whether that lion is well-disposed to you. I know the feeling all too well myself; many’s the time I thought myself safe, only to discover that, once again, Flashy had been dumped arse-over-appetite into the soup. 

“And, my lord, if you wish to purchase chain of that calibre, while the particular chains in that picture may no longer exist, British industry is quite capable of turning more of the same out,” Blackadder said. His tone was all deference, but I could see his eyes, and he was inwardly triumphing. The more we could accustom Westeros to buying British goods, the more money would flow into British pockets. We’d conquered a good deal of India that way, after all, and the East India Company had been a great power in its own right well into my own lifetime. (3)

Tyrion looked thoughtful. “I will want to look into this. I’ve the power of the purse --- in all but name, I’m effectively king, at least in my father’s absence. Unless what you wish to charge for this is utterly beyond our power to pay, I would be greatly interested in purchasing a length sufficient to go across the harbour mouth.”

With that, the conversation turned to other matters. Tyrion said that the Northerners were still holding his brother, and he was racking his brains trying to find ways to retrieve him. “I had hoped to make a trade, but Lord Eddard’s dead and Arya’s disappeared,” he said; the Moselle wine we were serving had gone to his head more than he realised, I think. Like most Westerosi noblemen, even if not on the scale of the late lamented King Robert or the former knight, now fool, Dontos Hollard, Tyrion was one for punishing the wine at dinner. 

“What of the Lady Sansa?” asked Isabel Burton. We British knew little of her, other than that she was the oldest of the late Lord Eddard’s two daughters, and a great contrast to her hoydenish little sister. “Could you not offer her?”

“I would if I could, Lady Burton,” Tyrion answered, “but it’s no go. She was engaged to the King before he ascended the throne, and the Queen-Dowager has chosen to let that engagement continue. With the Lady Sansa as Queen, we’ve a claim on the North.”

I could see what he meant, although, privately, I thought that with “King” Robb Stark alive and in the field, any claims put forth on his sister’s behalf would likely fall on very deaf ears. David Livingstone had been informative; he’d been into the North country a time or two before we arrived, and apparently most of the folk there were devoted Stark loyalists. Robb Stark was young, apparently had buckets of charisma and charm, and, most importantly, had been winning victories in a steady stream. Had I been a Northerner, I’d not have wanted to swap him for Joffrey, even if the titular King of the Seven Kingdoms hadn’t been an insufferable spoilt brat of the sort I’d once gloried in breaking, in my last two years or so at Rugby.

“So you’re at an impasse,” Dick Burton mused. “Would you be interested in help from Britain?” 

Elspeth and I exchanged glances. Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly, thought I. I could see where this might well lead. British troops, once landed, tended to stay. We’d started out in India as nothing but traders, but our small holdings along the coast had grown into the mighty Raj that now held everything from Afghanistan and Tibet on down to Ceylon. And with our advantages in technology, combined with the relatively welcoming climate of Westeros making operations easier and death by disease not such a problem, we could conceivably end up owning all of Westeros.

That is, of course, if our rivals didn’t get in there too. France would definitely be interested, and Napoleon III had made noises about increasing support for Catholic missions in Westeros. A lot of our empire-building had been at least in part to forestall the bloody Frogs. If the French got a good toehold, we might end up fighting them over Westeros just as we had in India. And I didn’t see a Clive among my contemporaries. (4)

Even folk like the Dutch, Danes, Russians, Portuguese and Spaniards might be tempted by the wealth that could be had in Westeros. Not to mention the bloody Yanks. I like Americans…you’ll not find better men nor bonnier women anywhere…but their greed is almost beyond satiating. Even with them owning the lion’s share of their own continent, there’d be those among ‘em who’d think planting the Stars and Stripes in Westeros was a dam’ fine idea. All in all, keeping our world’s involvement in this one restricted to trading, and letting the locals misgovern themselves to their hearts’ content, struck me as a jolly good idea.

Tyrion shook his head. I’d not told him much about British history, but he was more than clever enough to see the implications of asking for help from such as us. “No, Ser Richard, not if I’ve any choice in the matter. We could use more of those wonderful armaments of yours, though. Word has it that Stannis Baratheon has been dealing with traders from your world, and I’d bet anything I own that he’s buying arms from them.”

If true, this was very bad news for the followers of King Joffrey. King Robert had wanted to be the only power in Westeros with gunpowder weapons; he had told Dick Burton that the previous dynasty, the Targaryens, had based much of their power on their monopoly of flying, fire-breathing dragons. Since the dragons had gone extinct some centuries ago (much to my relief; a knight I may well be, but facing off against a flying, fire-breathing monster as long as some ships is not something I ever want to do!) King Robert thought that cannon and muskets would do just fine as a substitute. Cannons and muskets also had the advantage of not needing constant expensive feeding, and not having minds of their own. 

Dick steered the conversation in safer directions, and soon we were discussing the different crops found in Westeros and Britain. With Westeros’ years-long seasons, they needed to store up food during the long springs, summers and falls, to tide them through the long, bleak winters. Tyrion was interested in more advanced methods of preserving food than drying, salting and smoking it, and some of us present knew enough to keep him on the edge of his seat, all but visibly wishing for a pen and paper with which to take notes. 

After our guest had left, thankfully without any incidents between his followers and our servants, Dick took me aside. “Flash, old man, I hate to ask this of you after what you’ve been through already, but we do need one of our best men to find out how much truth there is in this story of ‘King’ Stannis dealing with folk from our world for modern armaments.” To his credit, he really did look regretful. “I’d go myself, but I’m trapped here in Kings Landing. And most of our folk don’t have anything like your talent for getting into and out of sticky situations.” If he’d only known the truth! I’d survived the various hellish messes I’d found myself in over the years by funking, turning tail, whining and prevaricating as hard as I could, but somehow or other, I’d this reputation for fearlessness and derring-do saddled on me, and it was a worse burden than the Old Man of the Sea!

I had seen this coming, and had braced myself. “Of course, Dick, I’d be delighted to go. Do I go by land, or is HMS Penelope available?”

Dick shook his head. “We’ve got to keep Penelope close to Kings Landing. If Stannis, or some other enemy, tries an attack by sea, she’s an ace-in-the-hole we can’t afford to be without.” I could see his point. The locals’ ships were almost all galleys, and none of them mounted cannon as far as I was aware. 

“So do I hire a local ship?”

“No. We’ve just the fellow here. He’s been active in local shipping since he arrived, and has extensive experience from our own world.” At that statement, I felt a cold chill go over me. There was only one Briton in Westeros that I knew of who fit that bill!

Sure enough, a familiar voice rasped in my ear: “Aye, it’ll be good to be back at sea with my old supercargo! Amicorum omnia communia!” (5) I turned, to find myself staring into the pitiless pale eyes of John Charity Spring. “Sir Richard found out that I once commanded a trading ship in the Africa trade, and I’ve been back in that line since I came here. And, as always, my services are at my country’s call!”

Little good though it might do, I had to try to get out of this. “Er, Dick, are you sure about this?” I asked, glad that my voice was steady. “Captain Spring and I have had our differences in the past…” Well, me being shanghaied aboard his d**mned slave ship (6) and then being crimped off from South Africa to Baltimore to face a bunch of charges under Yankee law (7) gave me good reasons to be leery of him. He’d blamed me for being crimped in his turn, out of Susie Willnick’s bawdyhouse in New Orleans in ’49. (8) And I knew him well enough to know that his diseased ingenuity could cause me all sorts of problems. He wasn’t one to bother much about minor details like murder being against the law.

Spring shook his head. I noticed that his scar, which went darker the angrier he was, was pale as the skin surrounding it, so at least he hadn’t taken offence. “Never fear, Sir Harry!” He grinned at me like a Death’s-head. “Bonum est iniurias oblivisci!” (9)

Well, when life hands me lemons, I do my best to make lemonade. “Very well, Dick. I can be ready to go in a day or so. When are the tides most favorable, Captain? Audentes fortuna iuvat, (10) eh?” Seldom have I uttered a bigger lie, but I knew what was expected of me…play up, play up and play the game, as Newbolt would have said.

Spring’s face lit up in a real smile. “By Gad! If I’d had the molding of you, Sir Harry, I could have made a real scholar of you!” 

[1] In Byzantine times, and as late as the Ottoman siege of 1453, the inner harbor of Constantinople was protected by a huge chain that stretched across the mouth, just under the water’s surface. Ships trying to cross it commonly came to grief; only a few, such as those of the Viking leader Harald Hardrada, managed to negotiate their way over it. The chain can be seen today in an Istanbul museum.

[2] The Great Eastern was, in her time, the largest ship ever built by a good margin. A sidewheeler mounting auxiliary sails, she never really made a profit, being used for various purposes such as laying the transatlantic cable between Britain and New York, and ended her days as a breakwater and tourist attraction. 

[3] Flashman had started his rise to military glory in the service of the East India Company, after having to leave the 11th Hussars due to his marriage to a woman his commanding officer considered unsuitable. See Flashman.

[4] Sir Robert Clive, “Clive of India,” was one of the two men (along with Warren Hastings) more responsible than anybody else for the British Raj in India. He defeated the French in battle and ensured that their influence would be confined to a few cantonments along the Indian coast.

[5] “Among friends all is in common.”

[6] See Flash for Freedom!

[7] See Flashman and the Angel of the Lord.

[8] See Flashman and the Redskins.

[9] “It is good to forget injuries.”

[10] “Fortune favours the bold.”


End file.
